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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap£Z_7Copyright No. 

ShelfjIjkS^. 71 aru 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

























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VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND’S BOOKS. 


Uniform Style. Price $1.50 each. 

' ' SIRS, ONL Y SEVEN TEEN. ’ ' 

MOSTLY MARJORIE DAY. 

A BOSTON G/RL'S AMBITIONS. 

BUT A PHILISTINE. 

A WOMAN’S WORD. AND HOW SHE KEPT IT. 
DARRYLL GAP; OR, WHETHER IT PAID. 
ONLY GIRLS. 

THAT QUEER GIRL. 

LENOX DARE. 

New Editions. Price $1.00 each. 

THE MILLS OF TUXBURY. 

THE HOLLANDS. 

SIX IN ALL. 

THE DEER/NGS OF MED BURY. 


LEE AND SHEPARD, Publishers, 
BOSTON. 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S 
TO-MORROWS 


\ 


BY 

/: 


VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND 


AUTHOR OF “DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-DAYS” “THAT QUEER 
GIRL” “LENOX dare” “a BOSTON girl’s ambitions” 
“MOSTLY MARJORIE DAY” ETC. 


BOSTON 

LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 


c o»e ^ v 

' Of c $f 

NOV 12 1897 _ 

of _L .■a.Q h/% ifc 

TWO COPIES RECEIVED 


ot-1 


Copyright, 189T, by Lee and Shepard 


All rights reserved 


Dorothy Draycott’s To-morrows 


Norfaooti $rcsg 

J. S. Cushing A Co. — Berwick & Smith 
Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 





PAGE 

I. 

Talk that went Afield 

. 

. 

. 

1 

II. 

Two Women .... 





III. 

Soundings in Deeper Seas . 

. 

. ' 

. 

36 

IV. 

How One Father talked to 

HIS 

Son 

ABOUT 


Business .... 





V. 

Mrs. Nabby Dayles 

• 

. 

• 

56 

VI. 

Whether Daisy Ross forgot 

• 

• 

• 

68 

VII. 

With Tom Draycott and Dake Cramley 

• 

78 

VIII. 

How One Father talked to 

HIS 

Daughter 


about Marriage 

. 

. 

. 

86 

IX. 

The Gathering of the Winds ; 

THE 

Breaking 


of the Storm 

• 


. 

101 

X. 

Challenging his Fate . 

• 


. 

112 

XI. 

The Crisis .... 




118 

XII. 

Running him Out . 



. 

128 

XIII. 

The Small Boy’s Part in the Drama 

. 

137 

XIV. 

At Miner’s Rest . 



. 

148 

XV. 

The Girl by the Farther Sea 



. 

152 

XVI. 

Some Small Happenings 



. 

157 

XVII. 

In Aspen Hollow . 



. 

162 

XVIII. 

The Soul of a Man 



. 

169 

XIX. 

The Problem of Caleb Crafts 



. 

176 

XX. 

HOW IT BEGAN 

• 


. 

181 

XXI. 

The Battle with the Fiends 

• 


. 

185 


IV 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXII. 

“ At Mullins’ ” 

. 

# 

PAGE 

190 

XXIII. 

The Parting at Catamount Curve 

• 

• 

196 

XXIY. 

Red Knolls Again .... 

. 

• 

203 

XXV. 

Dake Cramley’s Decision 

. 

• 

213 

XXVI. 

Things they said to Each Other . 

. 

• 

219 

XXVII. 

Five Years 

. 

• 

227 

XXVIII. 

Jessie Reeves 

. 

. 

236 

XXIX. 

From Trapper’s Glen to Murray’s 

Range 

. 

249 

XXX. 

Caleb Crafts Transformed . 

. 

. 

258 

XXXI. 

The Mountain Station . 

. 

• 

270 

XXXII. 

How Philip Fallowes reappeared 

. 

• 

273 

XXXIII. 

The Meeting at Red Knolls 

. 

• 

277 

XXXIV. 

Cross-winds and Undercurrents . 

. . 

• 

280 

XXXV. 

What Daisy Ross saw 

. 

• 

290 

XXXVI. 

Mrs. Draycott’s Minute 

. 

• 

298 

XXXVII. 

How Philip went to Cherry Farms 

. 


302 

XXXVIII. 

Dorothy Draycott’s Surprise 

. 

• 

307 

XXXIX. 

The Poem Philip Fallowes remembered 

• 

315 

XL. 

That Memorable May-morning 


• 

328 

XLI. 

“ I will find a Way ! ” -she said . 

• 

. 

CO 

CO 

XLII. 

Where and How it was Told 

9 

• 

345 

XLIII. 

“It had All come back to her!” 

• 

• 

354 

XLIV. 

The Moment which revealed All 

9 

• 

359 

XLV. 

As Donald Draycott related it . 

• 

• 

368 

XL VI. 

How Events culminated at Red Knolls 

# 

372 

XL VII. 

The Talk on the Lower Piazza . 



377 

XL VIII. 

The Talk on the Upper Piazza . 

_ 

# 

379 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


i 

TALK THAT WENT AFIELD 

Swift footsteps rang along the upper hall. They were 
followed, in an instant, by a loud imperative knock on 
the panel. There was no pause for a reply before the 
door swung back, and a strong masculine voice with the 
unmistakable quality of training and refinement ex- 
claimed : “ Let all that stuff slide ! This is an outdoor’s 
day with a vengeance. Come and see it.” 

“Do you call that stuff, you unappreciative creature?” 
The voice this time was distinctly feminine — a young, 
sensitive voice with a dash of defiant fun; some other 
things, too, for which one does not so easily find the 
right word. 

The speaker held up triumphantly a sketch in water- 
colors ; she had been absorbed for the last hour in put- 
ting on the final touches. 

Tom Draycott strode forward, stood at the back of his 
sister’s chair, and gazed over her shoulder in silence. 
The sketch was a very simple study, but a lovely bit of 
work had been made of a handful of nodding ferns and 
grasses, a big boulder with pale green and rich brown 
lichen, across which had fallen a spray of brier, with a 

B 1 


2 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


single wild rose. The flower — a bit of glowing crimson 
against the lower color tones — was likely to bring back 
to the gazer the scent of a whole bush of blossoming 
wild roses on some old, grass-grown highway. 

“ Pretty ! ” commented Tom, with a man’s reserve of 
adjectives, after he had bestowed a few moments on the 
picture. “ But come and see what is awaiting you out 
doors ! ” 

“ Just a few more finishing touches, Tom, and I will.” 

“As though I didn’t know what those mean! You 
will be pottering for the next hour, with no idea of what 
you are losing outside. I tell you this morning is one of 
the year’s masterpieces, — it’s last too, judging from the 
date, — in this line.” 

“Well, I will join you in ten minutes.” 

Tom Draycott, with a half-perfunctory grunt, took 
himself off. • 

Under ordinary circumstances his sister would have 
responded eagerly enough to his invitation, but “ finish- 
ing touches,” whether they are the tints of a picture or 
words of a poem, are not easily put aside by artist or 
author. 

Anybody who had known Tom Draycott six years 
ago would recognize him at a glance as he drops into a 
large bamboo chair on the upper piazza at Bed Knolls. 
It is true he is several inches taller; his chest has a 
wider girth, and the carriage of his head on his straight 
shoulders an air of riper manhood. His brown, thick 
mustache is becoming, and the maturing process has 
improved him, although he will never be as handsome a 
man as his father. But a stranger, with a penetrating 
glance or two at the character of face and figure, would 
have felt some of the best things had gone to his making. 


TALK THAT WENT AFIELD 


3 


The external changes, however, are not the most im- 
portant ones with Tom Draycott. He has gained much 
in experience and knowledge of the world; he is less 
arrogant, too, in the expression of his opinions than he 
was at the close of his Sophomore period. Indeed, he 
regards the youth of six years ago as, in some respects, a 
very rudimentary creature. 

The chief events in his life during these years can be 
related in a few sentences. At the close of his university 
course, he entered the Harvard Law School ; he spent one 
vacation in Europe, and when he had finished his legal 
studies he was abroad again for nearly six months. 

“ You must take Europe in bits,” his father had said 
to him. “We can’t spare you from Red Knolls very 
long ; what is more, your place and your work are in your 
native land, and you will not be better fitted for either 
by spending all your youth in globe-trotting.”* 

With this admonition Tom Draycott had made the 
most of his time, not staying away long enough to ac- 
quire new habits, and coming home in a half-alienated, 
half-critical mood with American life and ideas. He 
saw the Old World — its most famous scenery, its strange 
races, its treasures of art — with the fresh delight and 
eagerness of young manhood. It was a deepening and 
broadening experience, coming at the right time. 

On his return home he entered a law-office. It had an 
old, solid reputation in Boston, and its head was also an 
old friend of Donald Draycott’s. It was regarded in law- 
circles as a splendid opening for his son. 

The deep piazza where Tom Draycott is sitting spans 
the back of the wide, half-century mansion. At his feet 
lies the garden which the first American Draycott laid 
out and cultivated more than two hundred years ago. 


4 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Some of the ancient fruit trees and bushes are still vigor- 
ous. It is a fascinating old place, with footpaths twist- 
ing among flower-beds which make a world of gay bloom 
for more than half the New England year. A number 
of pretty little summer-houses are scattered about at 
picturesque points. They give an air of human interest 
to the old garden, even in the dreariest winter day. 

Outside the high terraces and grounds of Bed Knolls, 
young Draycott sees the broad, historic highway making 
for the low, distant hills. Between these and himself 
are scattered thrifty New England villages — a massing 
of low, dark roofs against mounting church-spires. He 
notices how the dull brown sweeps of pasture-land bring 
out sharply the occasional masses of forest evergreenery. 
He has been perfectly familiar with this scene, from his 
earliest memory ; yet it strikes him this morning with a 
fresh charm and significance, almost as though he had 
never seen it before. 

The scene on which Tom Draycott gazed had been 
swept from horizon to horizon by the black frosts. Their 
breath had fallen on all lovely things like a devouring 
fire. The boughs where summer birds had nested and 
sung were bare and silent now. Not a wild flower made 
a gleam of color among the shrivelled brown grasses. It 
was as though leaf and bloom, as though song and fra- 
grance, had never been. Yet it seemed to Tom Draycott 
as he gazed, that this day had some divine loveliness — 
some mystery of beauty — which no other had worn in 
all the year’s great gift of days. It stood between the 
black frosts and the white snows with such ineffable 
peace and shining ; its skies one unclouded, radiant 
azure, its soft mellow sunshine transfiguring all things 
it touched, its hazes on the distant hills shades of ame- 


TALK THAT WENT AFIELD 


5 


thyst and purplish- gray, melting into one another — a 
perfect Indian-summer day. 

Tom Draycott had brought his writing-pad with him, 
intending to spend the interval before Dorothy’s appear- 
ance in making some notes for future reference in a law- 
case that was pending; but that mystic charm of the 
day held his gaze — drew it from point to point like a 
spell. 

In a few moments swift feet crossed the threshold, and 
Dorothy Draycott stood by her brother’s side. 

“ Look there ! ” he said ; a sweep of his arm took in 
the whole horizon. 

She did look in unbroken silence, her gaze drinking 
it all in -— sky and atmosphere and landscape. 

She stands by her brother’s side — our Dorothy of six 
years ago — in a soft dress of summer-wool texture, of 
pale amber tint; a dress laid aside when the frosts 
came, but brought into service again with the milder 
temperature. One, seeing her now and remembering the 
girl of seventeen, might exclaim in good faith, “You 
are not in the least changed ! ” But a longer, more pene- 
trating gaze would detect the difference — not merely in 
added height, but in soft touches and faint chiselling of 
facial lines. The rose-tint has hardly deepened in her 
cheek, though the olive skin has a richer tone. The eyes 
and the smile are all Dorothy Draycott’s. If changes 
and new meanings have entered into both, they are not 
of the kind which attracts a passing observation. The 
years from seventeen to twenty-three include many to- 
morrows, and as they come and go, noiseless as the stars, 
they work their own transforming processes on young, 
eager, sensitive souls. 

In the silence you could hear the scratch of Tom’s 


6 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

style on his writing-pad. As he tore away the sheet, he 
exclaimed : “ Well, isn’t it about time for you to make a 
remark ? I hadn’t foreseen the show was going to strike 
you dumb ! ” 

Dorothy seated herself near him in a low piazza 
rocker. “0 Tom,” the voice keyed low as in a kind 
of awed delight, “ this is transcendent ! ” 

“You have struck the right adjective the first time. 
I’m a hopelessly practical fellow at best, and delving 
among law documents isn’t the sort of thing to stimulate 
a fellow’s imagination. But I can feel the atmosphere 
of poetry in a day like this. If my stars had only added 
to my other shining gifts the tenth part of a muse, this 
scene must have inspired her. You used to be the versi- 
fier of the family, Dollikins.” 

She lifted her brows. “That was a long time ago, 
Tom. My songs get fewer and fainter of late years. 
They do not seem — worth while.” 

“‘Long time ago ! Late years ! ’ ” mimicked Tom. “ How 
dismally sere and yellow-leafish that sounds ! I used to 
think, when you occasionally condescended to give me a 
sample of your rhymes, that you' had no reason to be 
ashamed of them. Decidedly the contrary.” 

“ If you had only said so then, I should have stood on 
my head for pride and joy ! ” 

“Well, I say it now, when my judgment and taste 
ought to be of more importance.” 

“Yes; and it is pleasant — very — to hear you say 
it, but my own standards have altered very much since 
the time I actually fancied I was going to be a great 
author and startle the world with my genius. I have 
learned that a few graceful rhymes do not make a great 
poet. v 


TALK THAT WENT AFIELD 


7 


“ Certainly not; but the greatest had to begin with 
the rhymes. ‘ The ladder which mounts to the skies ’ — 
you know the rest.” 

“ Of course. That metaphor will always serve while 
the world stands. But, Tom,” her voice took on a deeper, 
vibrant note, “that deep, full-volumed quality of song 
which goes swelling and singing around the world and 
into human hearts and lives is not in me. I once thought 
it was ; I was very young then ; so many others have made 
the same mistake! Perhaps every generation has as 
many poets as it needs. I don’t mean to disparage what 
gift I have, though I hope it may sometime prove to be 
more than a pretty knack at rhyming. But I no longer 
cherish the dream of being one of the world’s Im- 
mortals ! ” 

“ You don’t seem, by that tone, to feel at all crushed 
by the fact.” 

“ Shall I cry because I cannot have the moon ? ” pois- 
ing her head in a way that made it seem a pity anything 
so bewitching should be lost on Tom, for whom it had 
not the zest of novelty. “ The world down here is very 
lovely. Look at this day ! ” 

At that instant a robin’s song flashed into the silence, 
as though its clear, liquid notes were a part of some 
May-morning — one world of joyous greenery and gay 
blossoms and sun-drowned air. The voice should have 
come from some wild, leafy thicket all a-sparkle with 
morning dews, and tremulous with the touch of soft 
winds ; but the bird was a-tilt bn a great rose-bush, whose 
bare boughs and interlacing twigs stood out sharply on 
an edge of the terrace beneath the piazza. 

The young people glanced at each other in mute 
recognition. After a moment’s silence the joyful lilt 


8 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

flashed out again — the song of the live, throbbing J une 
in the slow heart of November. Then in a moment the 
bird darted from the shrubbery, and they watched it 
wing its flight through the air. 

Dorothy turned her radiant eyes on her brother. “ 0 
Tom, that is what the day means ! The bird is the 
poet ! ” 

“ Won’t you translate its song then ? ” 

“You have asked me to do what only a great poet 
could!” 

“ You can at least tell me what it means to you.” 

There was a little silence. Then, with heightening of 
color and quickening of breath, she began : “ Don’t you 
see ? There was no regret in it — only a great hope and 
joy. What the song meant was not a farewell, but 
a promise ! ‘ I am going away ; do not grieve for me ! 

The winter and the north-winds, the snows and the 
storms, must have their turn now. But I shall come 
back again! You shall see them all once more, — the 
wealth of leaves and blossoms, the joy of the spring, 
the glory of the summer, the splendor of the autumn ! 
There is nothing you will miss — nothing you will lose ! ’ 
That is what the bird’s song said to me, Tom ! ” 

“If the bird could only know, it would come back 
again and thank you with a throat full of November 
songs, Dollikins.” 

So these two talked, sitting on the piazza in the sun- 
shine as they probably would not sit until April winds 
blew soft again. They said whatever came into their 
minds with the blissful freedom of fireside intimacy, and 
the talk went from grave to gay, from jest to earnest, as 
it had been doing all their lives. This was, however, 
subject to frequent interruptions. Some detail — strik- 


TALK THAT WENT AFIELD 


9 


ing or picturesque — in the landscape was constantly- 
arresting the gaze of one or the other, who would break 
in : “ Do you see what wonderful work the lights and 
shadows are making over there by the hedgerows ? ” 

“Do observe the crossing and twisting of boughs in 
that big elm ! If you get the right point, the sky shines 
between — bits of sparkling sapphire.” 

Once, after a longer pause than usual, Dorothy broke 
in: “I am so glad Mr. and Mrs. Amoury came last 
night. Two blessed women are having a happy morning 
together.” 

“No doubt,” assented Tom rather absently, occupied 
once more with his pad. 

“ I can’t imagine how Red Knolls is going to get along 
and those two people across the sea.” 

This time Tom roused himself. “ It will make a big 
gap in our lives.” 

“ Mrs. Amoury says they intend to be back in time to 
see Red Berry Roads grow green and open Amoury 
Roost late in May. She insists we are to come next 
summer with the dozen. You remember when papa and 
mamma were in California how we had our week with 
the youngsters.” 

“I should think so! I was a newly fledged Junior 
at that time, and Fallowes turned up in the happiest, 
most unexpected fashion ; and you took it into your head 
one morning to go off junketing with the dozen, and as 
a sequence just escaped having your own neck broken 
and gave everybody a tremendous scare ! ” 

“ But I didn’t break my neck, you callous biped, and I 
saved that tooting infant’s ! Mrs. Amoury assures me 
he is now an insufferable, vociferous, shock-headed nine- 
year-old ! ” 


10 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“Good luck to him!” ejaculated Tom, stripping off 
another thickly scrawled sheet. “Of course I concede 
that the whole thing was superbly brave on your part. 
But I devoutly hope you may never feel called to face 
such a risk again.” 

She drew a long breath ; she spoke mostly to herself 
now. “ I am not sure that it was brave, even. I never 
stopped to think ; I only went ; I did not know until it 
was all over that I was doing anything rash.” 

Tom probably did not hear ; he was scribbling assidu- 
ously. A long silence fell. Dorothy was absorbed in 
the scene before her — in all that it included of w r ide 
horizon and luminous landscape and distant hills smoth- 
ered in shining hazes, and in nearer effects of light and 
shade, of form and color. At last Tom, having scrawled 
off another sheet, looked up and saw the smile which 
unbent the line of her lips. 

“ What are you thinking about, Dorothy ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing — much ! Go on with your work, Tom.” 

“Thank you! I have finished my stent. But I am 
conscious of a devouring curiosity to know what thought 
was at the bottom of your smile.” 

“ I had no idea I was smiling. But the thought itself 
was too absurd — one of those things which show ineffa- 
bly silly when brought into common daylight.” 

“ Don’t you suppose I have had thoughts of that sort 
myself — numerous as the sands on the sea-shore ? Come, 
Dorothy ! ” 

“ Talk of a woman’s insistence ! But if you will have it, 
I was wondering if it was on such a morning as this that 
Shakspere started to go up, for the first time, from Strat- 
ford to London.” 

Tom burst into a roar of laughter. 


TALK THAT WENT AFIELD 


11 


“ There ! But I might have known ! I deserve it all 
for telling you.” 

“ I beg your pardon. A fellow must have his laugh. 
But there was nothing absurd in your thought. It is 
easily accounted for too. You have been deep in Eliza- 
bethan literature and times of late. Strange ! What a 
hold that live, virile old century gets of one. You 
breathe its atmosphere, you move among its scenes ! I 
have been through it all, my dear, when I was younger 
than you, so I understand. As to your question, I can 
answer that decidedly. Unless English skies, atmos- 
phere, and sunshine were, in the sixteenth century, very 
unlike what I found them in the nineteenth, that obscure 
youth, William Shakspere of Stratford, never footed, 
rode, or made his way up to London in any public con- 
veyance, on a day like this one.” 

“ And think of what went with him, Tom — all that 
immortal procession of his characters — all that glo- 
rious group of dramas ! It makes one hold one’s breath ! 
If anything had happened to him that day, — some very 
commonplace accident, you know, — what an immeasur- 
able loss it would have been to the world ! ” 

“ Gracious ! I should think so ! A world without 
Hamlet, and the rest of them ! ” rejoined Tom, absently 
playing with his style. 

“ And he was a mere boy — at least, younger than you 
and I ! If there was a soul in London who said to him- 
self, 1 Shakspere is coming to town to have a bout with 
fortune/ it must have seemed a small affair to the speaker. 
And yet it was one of the world’s great events.” 

“ That is the old way ! ” rejoined Tom. “ The world’s 
grandest souls have not usually appeared with heralds, 
trumpets, and processions ! ” 


12 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT*S TO-MORROWS 

A little later the talk had come back to the present. 
The young people were discussing a serial which was 
running through one of the principal magazines, and 
which was creating a good deal of interest in the read- 
ing world. 

“ Of course,” Tom added to some other comments as 
he leaned his head against the back of his chair, and 
elongated his tall person in a luxurious, masculine fash- 
ion, “ the drama is well worked up and the character- 
drawing in places very strong. But when you have 
granted so much — the weak point conies up. The hero 
is a woman’s man. He behaves very grandly of course, 
in certain trying situations and conjunctions. But when 
all is said and done, your real flesh-and-blood, every-day 
man never reasons and behaves like that.” 

“ What do you mean, Tom ? ” 

“ Just what I say. Women novelists — as a rule — 
fail when it comes to their men. Of course, these have 
masculine traits, but they do not represent the all-round, 
genuine biped. In a given condition they do not think, 
feel, or act as he does. They are the men whom women 
imagine and idealize, but they do not exist in matter-of- 
fact, every-day life ! ” 

“ But think of George Eliot’s men.” 

“ I did not assert there are no exceptions to the rule, 
though I am not prepared to admit she invariably and 
absolutely succeeds.” 

“ Well, what have you to say about men’s women ? ” 

“ I should imagine a woman herself best qualified to 
answer that question.” 

Dorothy reflected a moment. “ I am not prepared now to 
express a general opinion. I do know, however, that one 
of my favorite authors seems to me to fail unaccountably 


TALK THAT WENT AFIELD 


13 


when it conies to his women. They lack clear outlines ; 
they seem vague, unnatural. Somehow, I can’t get hold 
of them.” 

“Then there’s a false note, somewhere. But to get 
back to the book again — What a vast amount of misun- 
derstanding, suffering, and tragedy might have been 
avoided by a very simple expedient ! ” 

“ What was that ? ” 

“ If the man could once have been made to perceive 
that the woman cared for him ! ” 

“But that was just the one impossible thing. She 
could not take the initiative.” 

“ I see no reason why she should not. Of course social 
laws, traditions, and all conservative forces would be 
against her. It would require a brave woman to go in 
the face of all those ! ” 

“ It would require something less admirable than 
bravery, I think ! ” with a challenging ring in her voice. 
“ Do I really understand you to say, Tom Draycott, you 
would have a young woman propose to a man ? ” 

“ I mean certainly that I see no reason in the nature of 
things why she should not. It is difficult to discuss 
these matters dispassionately. We are all more or less 
under the bondage of social prejudices and conventional 
standards.” 

“ ‘ Social prejudices ! Conventional standards ! ’ ” echoed 
Dorothy, all her young girl’s strong sense of the proprie- 
ties rising in arms. “ It is the man’s part to seek, to sue, 
to win. Any change of roles here would be unnatural, 
indelicate, monstrous ! It would be a blow to the inborn 
reserves and instincts of womanhood. It would spoil all 
the romance of life ! ” 

“ Bomance ! Fiddlesticks ! It would simplify matters 


14 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

immensely, and let in some broad daylight on many a 
tragic situation.” 

There was a moment’s pause. Dorothy suddenly 
changed her tactics. Her tone and air were the most in- 
nocent in the world, but there was a covert gleam in her 
eyes, which always put Tom on his mettle. “ In discuss- 
ing general questions of this sort, I have often observed 
that a personal application serves better than anything 
else : How would you enjoy having a woman propose to 
you, Tom Draycott ? ” 

“ That would depend — on a variety of circumstances.” 

“ But you must see that it would be very embarrassing 
if you found it impossible to say ‘‘ Yes,’ and shockingly 
ungallant to say ‘ No ! ’” 

At this point the comic aspects of the situation as ap- 
plied to Tom, struck Dorothy forcibly. She burst into 
uncontrollable laughter. Peal after peal rang gayly about 
the piazza. 

“Dorothy,” said Tom, keeping his countenance with 
some difficulty, “ you are a terrible creature ! Could 
feminine ingenuity and malice go farther ? To conceive 
an innocent and helpless man in such a position, and then 
gloat over his misery ! ” 

He boxed her ears — in pantomime. 

But there was a manly ring in his voice when he said : 
“ At all events, I should not be a cad ! The woman’s 
confidence would be sacred. I should never plume myself 
ou it — never go about detailing it to my thousand and one 
friends, as so many of your sex feel privileged to do when 
it comes to a man’s offer.” 

Dorothy felt he had scored a point here. “Nobody 
would think of your doing that, Tom,” she replied with a 
thrill of sisterly pride in her tones. 


TALK THAT WENT AFIELD 


15 


But they were soon deep in the argument again. They 
kept it up for the next hour, treating the whole subject 
from masculine and feminine standpoints. The talk was 
very grave at times ; but there were flashes of fun and 
innuendo, as were sure to be the case when these clever 
young people matched their wits against each other. 

At last, Tom, getting up, and stretching his long limbs, 
said decidedly : “Dorothy, we may as well call off. There 
is no use arguing with you. You beg half the ques- 
tions ; you go from one point to another in the most incon- 
sequent way, and you are — excuse me — hopelessly and 
femininely illogical ! ” 

“ Torn/'* retorted Dorothy, drawing down her mouth so 
that no telltale smile should be ambushed in the corners, 
“you have the most obstinate argumentative vein: it 
made the unhappiness of my infantile years ; it has 
developed enormously since you received your legal di- 
ploma; I have observed that fact and mourned over it.” 

Tom received this thrust of home truths with granitic 
composure. “I flattered myself that I was making a 
plea for some portion of your sex,” he said. 

“ What portion ? ” inquired Dorothy, sure that her turn 
was coming now from his half -injured, half-apologetic 
tone and air. 

“ For those who may never have an offer, or a satisfac- 
tory one. My plan would at least afford them a chance.” 

There was no reason, in the nature of things, why 
Dorothy should appropriate this remark to herself, but it 
suited her to pretend to. She rose with a great assump- 
tion of dignity. 

“I shall not pursue this subject any longer,” she said. 
« But I do not retire from the lists defeated ; I appeal to 
the instincts of all ages and races, to the feelings and 


16 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


intuitions of womanhood; and no Harvard alumnus — 
no member of the Boston bar, primed with learning and 
logic, and masculine conceit — shall make me budge an 
inch from my position ! ” 

With this peroration she made him a bow and swept 
off to her room. Tom burst into a roar of laughter, and 
strode after her ; but she was too quick for him ; she 
whisked into her room and turned the lock. 

Tom affected repentance, and tried to prevail on her to 
open the door ; but his feint of humility was too trans- 
parent. Dorothy was inexorable. 

At last, with a rejoinder, not remarkable for meekness, 
and another laugh, Tom took himself off to his room. 


TWO WOMEN 


17 


II 

TWO WOMEN 

“ It often appears to me, Evelyn, that I am the most 
overrated person in the world ! ” 

The voice was quite serious ; yet had you not seen the 
speaker, you would have felt a smile had gone along with 
the words and subtly interpreted them. 

“ Grace ! ” the tone this time made the monosyllable a 
swift, amused disclaimer. “ You must be the sole woman 
in the world who would have made a speech of that sort. 
It is the burning grievance of a large proportion of our 
sex that they are misunderstood, not appreciated, and all 
that. Your trouble seems to be, as you sit there this 
morning, you dear blessed woman, that you are ranked 
vastly above your deserts.” 

“Of course you are laughing at me; but I am very 
much in earnest.” 

“Of course you are too, or you would not be Grace 
Draycott! All you have said, however, only goes to 
prove how much to the point Donald’s remark was last 
night, when we were walking in the grounds, and among 
other topics, talking you over.” 

The listener raised her eyebrows slightly. “ Donald’s 
remarks are usually much to the point when it does not 
come to talking over his wife with certain of his friends.” 

“ Then you will probably not agree with him when he 
c 


18 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


said: ‘If Grace would only be as just to herself as she is 
to other people ! But I long ago gave up that as hope- 
less ! ’ ” 

At that moment a robin’s song gushed out in the 
stillness from the tall, leafless clump of hawthorn, a 
few feet from the window. The two women exchanged 
glances of mute delight. It was the same robin which, a 
few moments before, had startled the young people on 
the upper piazza. When the delicious notes broke out 
again, the two slipped noiselessly to the window. They 
were just in time to see the bird darting away through 
the blue shining air. There was no need to linger. It 
had delivered its message. 

Grace Draycott and Evelyn Amoury, as they stood 
that November morning by the window, made, in all 
physical aspects, an effective contrast. One was a blonde, 
the other a brunette. The former had a slower grace of 
movement than her friend. She had a beautifully moulded 
head. Rich auburn gleams meshed themselves in her 
hair’s brown abundance. Her large, deep-set eyes of a 
peculiar gray tint made one think of the sea in cer- 
tain of its moods. It is not easy to describe her in de- 
tail. After all, the best thing which could be said of 
her had been said long ago : “ Into her face a lovely 
soul had crept.” 

Evelyn Amoury, with her rich brunette color, her spar- 
kling animation, her swift grace of movement and manner, 
was, as I said, a striking contrast to her friend, who was 
also several years her senior, though neither seemed to 
have passed the boundary of early middle life. They 
wore morning dresses of soft fabric, which suited them 
in color and style. Each had quiet, exquisite taste, and 
it was characteristic that each had, amid the hideous, 


TWO WOMEN 


19 


angular fashions of the last decade of the nineteenth 
century, managed to produce in their gowns an effect of 
simplicity and soft flowing lines. 

Amoury Roost at Red Berry Roads, in southern New 
Hampshire, had just been closed. It was a tradition that 
the Amouries should spend a week with the Draycotts’ 
before the winter home at Brookline should be opened. 

The two had arrived the night before. But this year 
there was to be a diversion. John Amoury had decided 
to go abroad on some business which would keep him in 
England for several months. The later programme in- 
cluded a trip on the continent. The prospect of the 
long-impending absence lent, for all concerned, a peculiar 
interest to this visit. There was a feeling at Red Knolls 
that the winter would not be just the same with the 
Amouries left out of it. 

After breakfast the two women came upstairs to Mrs. 
Draycott’s room. It was tacitly understood that they 
were to have this first morning to themselves. The 
chamber had a southern and western outlook. It was 
a large room, and, in various ways, suggested its occu- 
pant to those who knew her best. The furnishings were 
partly old-fashioned, partly modern. A few choice land- 
scapes and interiors illuminated the walls. While the 
room was not suffocated with ornament, it had, in the 
course of years, accreted a good deal in the way of bric-a- 
brac and decorative stuff which had some value to the 
owner, either intrinsic or from association. 

The two stood for some time at the window, drinking 
in the radiant beauty of that Indian-summer morning. 
At last they turned away with something of its light and 
joy reflected in their eyes. Mrs. Draycott drew a low 
chair to her friend and seated herself opposite in another. 


20 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


If two women are apart together in intimate compan- 
ionship, their talk will be likely to form a sure index of 
character, whether they gravitate, by virtue of essential 
quality, to gowns and gossip, to servants and scandal, or 
fill the hour with nobler interchange of thought and sym- 
pathy which shall make it a helpful illuminating memory 
in their lives. 

“Evelyn, dear,” said Mrs. Draycott in her soft clear 
accents, “that robin’s song must have said something 
to you. It seemed to break out from the very heart of 
June, and this is November — the eventide of the year.” 

“I was thinking as I listened, Grace, that the song 
seemed to have brought back something of all the glow 
and joy and bloom of my summers at Amoury Boost, 
and that I was so immeasurably glad to have listened 
with you.” Mrs. Amoury leaned over, and with the 
swift vivacity which was one of her charms, laid her 
hands in her friend’s. 

“ ‘ And,’ I said to myself as we stood by the window, - 
‘I am so glad it is Evelyn, instead of another woman, to 
share the day and the song with me.’ 

“ I was sure they would both have the same meaning 
for you. What was it, Grace ? ” 

The light grew deeper in the sea-gray eyes. “Keally, 
Evelyn, it was not the ‘good-night’ of the year’s No- 
vember, but the ‘good-morning’ of next May I seemed 
to hear when the bird sang. Of course, there is all that 
lies between — the long, dark winter, the fierce storms, 
the white snows, and the earth under them in a sleep so 
still and frozen that it seems no spring could ever break 
it. But that is like my boy and girl when they kissed 
me ‘good-night’ and went happy and sleepy to bed. 
The night to be filled with sweet, dreamless slumber 


TWO WOMEN 


21 


— was just a blank to them. They never cared for, never 
thought of that. It was the good-morning toward which 
all their eager life and interests turned. For that they 
were full of bounding hopes of plans and certainties. 

“And so, this day, standing at the very gateway of 
winter, seems to have no consciousness of the long cold 
and silence, of the wild storms close at hand. What a 
divine joy, what a serene assurance, there is in the sky and 
the sunshine ! It seems as though the day looked across 
the winter, and saw the summer and brooded content and 
joyful.” 

The tears shone in Mrs. Amoury’s dark eyes. “ O 
Grace, you have interpreted them both, and they are one 

— the bird’s song and the day’s beauty. Yet, there are 
so many women who need both more than we do ; and 
have not eyes to see, nor ears to hear.” 

Then, as by one impulse, they both turned and looked 
out of the window, and the morning seemed to them to 
have gathered into its heart the very sereneness, the 
repose and harmony, we go longing for, and in more or 
less blind ways, reaching after all our lives. 

After a long silence, in which they feasted their gaze 
on the scene before them, they sat down again, and Mrs. 
Draycott said to her friend: “Evelyn, do you suppose 
there can be two happier women in the world than you 
and I are this morning ? ” 

“I can’t imagine it. Sometimes I say to myself, — 
‘Evelyn Amoury, you don’t deserve it! Why should 
you be singled out from other women for such content 
and blessedness ! With such a striving and suffering 
world all about you too ! ’ First, I have John ! You 
know all that means ! ” 

“ Yes ; I have Donald ! ” 


22 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

“ And after we have named the supreme things, how 
many lesser ones follow ! ” 

“ And then think of those other lives set against ours 
with all their denials, wrongs, and sorrows ! The con- 
trast always pains and saddens me.” 

“ Of course it does, you dear, conscientious thing ! As 
though you weren’t doing something all the time to lift 
the burdens of those other lives ! ” 

“As though I didn’t have the example constantly 
before me ! What has become of your dozen ? ” 

Mrs. Amoury lifted her eyebrows. “ They have made 
some advance in evolution. But it is naturally a long, 
slow process. John assures me we cannot suppose they 
would unfold rapidly with a week or a fortnight — for it 
has come to that now — out of the year at Bed Berry 
Boads. But there is perceptible progress. I think we 
have a hold on the girls and the gamins too, and that 
they will be better and happier all their lives because 
they have come to us.” 

At this point the talk diverged into a lighter vein. 
Mrs. Amoury related in her picturesque, sparkling fash- 
ion, various ludicrous incidents which had taken place 
during the last summer’s visit of her proteges. These 
things were always occurring with their advent. She 
kept the most amusing of these gaucher ies and contretemps, 
as she did other and finer things in the eventful fort- 
night, for Bed Knolls. 

But the two did not sit still very long. The day was 
like a powerful magnet — forever drawing them to the 
windows. And the woman with her lovely sea-gray eyes 
and the woman with her dark, tender ones, stood together 
and gazed on the earth which basked its “bare brown 
limbs ” contentedly in the sunshine. 


TWO WOMEN 


23 


“ I have had so many happy days at Eed Knolls,” said 
Evelyn Amoury, smiling on her friend ; “ but it seems as 
though this one were a little the dearest — the most 
beautiful.” 

“At least, it has something which the others could 
not.” 

“ What is that, Grace ? ” 

“ Something of all our yesterdays.” 

At that moment light, swift feet scurried along the 
upper hall. A door closed ; a lock clicked. 

This was followed in a moment by a man’s loud, rapid 
tread. His voice, as it came down the stairs, gave one 
the impression that it might any moment break out into 
a roar of laughter. 

“I take it all back, Dollikins — every syllable! No 
doubt I was a wretch, a brute, — whatever bad names you 
will, — to make such an insinuation — to a girl’s face, too ! 
After such an amende honorable, you cannot refuse to open 
the door.” 

A bright-keyed, girlish voice answered this summons. 
The ladies could not catch the words, but there was a 
kind of gay defiance in the tones, and an evident refusal 
to unlock the door. 

“ Very well,” came the response of defeated masculin- 
ity ; “ Have it all your own way. But I leave with this 
parting shot : you will live to be a Petruchio’s Kate or a 
terrible-tongued spinster ! ” 

And the speaker took himself briskly away. 

“What does all that mean, Grace?” asked Mrs. 
Amoury, when they both had done laughing. 

“ It means that Tom and Dorothy are at it again. They 
will keep it up if they should live to see the next century 
out. It is so very like their old childish tiffs and tan- 


24 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


trums. Of course they are older now, and their tempers 
do not run away with them so easily, and though the 
argument waxes warm, it usually ends in a jest. But 
when they get into a debate, the old scenes are always 
coming up to me, and Tom is six, with the settled convic- 
tion that the world was made for him, and an immense 
consciousness of his two years’ seniority over his sister. 
He is very fond of her, but that by no means prevents 
his temper from getting the better of him and his quarrel- 
ling with her every day.” 

Mrs. Amoury laughed. “ What a charming little brace 
they were, and so alive in every fibre ! ” 

A sudden change flashed in Mrs. Draycott’s face. “0 
Evelyn, dear, it seems like talking of yesterday, and yet, 
it is such a far cry to that time. The little boy and girl 
are gone from me forever ! ” 

“ I know, Grace ; but you have that big, splendid Tom. 
There is Dorothy, too — such a lovely creature ! Surely, 
you would not go back to-day ? ” 

“No, Evelyn,” she said softly and steadily. “ But some- 
times I think of another change that may be near at hand, 
— that would mean so much to us all. It seemed so far 
off then, that when I looked forward, I hardly dreaded it. 
Now I say to myself: ‘It may come any time — in the 
most unexpected fashion. You must be ready for it, 
Grace Draycott ! ’ ” 

“But nothing has yet happened? There is not, at 
present, the slightest probability of anything of that 
sort ? ” inquired Mrs. Amoury, with an eagerness which 
showed her heart was in the question. 

Mrs. Draycott smiled into her friend’s eyes. “Noth- 
ing, Evelyn. If it were .otherwise, I should come to 
you first. But I know my boy and girl. To-day they 


TWO WOMEN 


25 


are both as heart-free as the children of whom I have 
been telling yon.” 

Mrs. Amoury drew a long sigh of relief. “ I must be 
jealous for you, Grace. It would hurt me to have a 
change enter into this perfect life at Red Knolls.” 

“ I was sure you who are so close to it would feel 
like that. As for Dorothy — she does not consider such 
a possibility; neither does Tom, for that matter. But 
she is in that stage of girlhood when matrimony, as a 
personal affair, has a certain repugnance. The uncon- 
scious woman, at bottom, is instinctively and rather 
defiantly on the defensive. You understand that phase, 
Evelyn ? ” 

“ Perfectly. I have been a girl ! ” 

“Then there is Tom. I know what possibilities of 
tenderness and nobleness are in his nature. I know 
how these would respond to certain influences and com- 
panionship, and how another kind — selfish and shallow 
— would be sure to bring out the limitations and faults 
of his temperament. I do not believe a wrong choice 
could wholly spoil his life. I think there is too strong 
and self-sustained an individuality at bottom for that; 
but how much a woman could do to make or mar his 
happiness ! Then — in the midst of these thoughts — 
I suddenly reflect that some other mother may be look- 
ing at her young daughter now with all a mother’s 
yearning forecast, wondering and fearing what sort of 
man may be the fate of the young life dearer than her 
own, and that this very girl may be my boy’s wife ! At 
such moments, I feel a pang of sympathy for that un- 
known mother ! ” 

“But your boy, Grace, never could throw himself 
away — with such a mother ! ” 


26 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“‘With such a mother!’” Mrs. Draycott echoed the 
words half to herself. “If Tom did that, I should 
always hold myself in some way responsible ! ” 

“ Grace ! ” 

“Yes; he has loved me more than anything in the 
world. For twenty-five years I have been the most 
intimate moulding force in his life. I have stood to 
him for all that is best and most sacred in womanhood. 
My influence has, in some aspects, been more constant 
and prevailing than his father’s. My errors may have 
been those of ignorance or inadequacy; but if, in the 
great crisis of his life, Tom’s heart or judgment should 
choose unwisely, could I hold myself blameless ? ” 

“Of course you could!” rejoined Mrs. Amourv, with 
immense decision. “In that case, the fault — the mis- 
take — would lie at Tom Draycott’s own door. You 
would not hold another woman to so stern an account 
as you hold yourself. I can hear you now making 
excuses for her.” 

“Perhaps; one has a right to be severer with one’s 
self than with another.” 

“ As for Dorothy — good angels guard her when the 
time comes ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Amoury devoutly. 

“I always shrink from facing that. I hug myself 
with the thought that she is my little girl still. All 
this may be weak or selfish; and when the hour 
comes, I shall remember what Donald has been to 
me. But is there another man in the world like him, 
Evelyn ? ” 

“ Only one, — John Amoury ! ” 

“Oh, yes ! Do forgive me that I forgot! Dear cousin 
John Amoury ! ” 

And then the women — wives of more than two de- 


TWO WOMEN 


27 


cades — leaned forward and, out of the gladness of their 
hearts, kissed each other. 

A little later, Mrs. Draycott was saying: “But, de- 
spite Dorothy’s indifference to all we have been talking 
about, there are depths of passionate devotion in her 
nature. She is not given to wasting herself on light, 
emotional, and sentimental fancies, but she has in her 
splendid possibilities of loyalty and heroism.” 

“ How often I have felt that, Grace ! ” 

There was a little silence. A wind stirred the twig- 
lets of bare trumpet-vine which made a blaze of red 
and yellow bloom about the window every midsummer, 

— a wind that lost itself a moment later among the 
thick-meshed branches. 

When Mrs. Draycott spoke again, it was with a half- 
amused, half-indignant tone. “That name — mother-in- 
law — is always repugnant to me. When one thinks of 
the relation itself, — of all its closeness and significance, 

— one resents the horrid legal term. I am confident 
some man without a poetic fibre in him invented it.” 

Mrs. Amoury laughed. “No doubt you are right, 
Grace. It never struck me before. I wonder why,” 
she continued a little later, half to herself, “John and 
I never regret we have no children of our own. Is it 
because we have so much beside?” 

“Nobody need regret it whose happiness flows into 
so many children’s lives,” said Mrs. Draycott tenderly. 
“There are your dozen and a host of others — to say 
nothing of Tom and Dorothy. Their whole lives will 
be richer and happier because they have known you 
and John.” 

At that instant, there was a light knock at the door, 
and Dorothy Draycott stood smiling on the threshold. 


28 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

“ May I come in, mamma ? ” she asked. “ I have a kind 
of feeling that profane feet have no right to invade this 
sanctum when you two are alone here together.” 

Both the ladies laughed. “You may come in, Doro- 
thy,” said her mother, “ if you can behave better than I 
suspect you have been doing this morning.” 

She glided into the room with the swift elastic move- 
ment of youth; she dropped on a low lounge ; she glanced 
around her with a demure look contradicted by a mis- 
chievous twinkle in her eyes. “ The walls will tell no 
tales,” she said, “ but I feel something in the air ! I told 
Tom this morning my left ear was burning, and he insisted 
that his was on the point of taking fire.” 

“ What enormous vanity ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Draycott. 
“ As though Evelyn and I could find nothing more im- 
portant to talk about than your two incorrigible selves ! 
We found several other topics interesting.” 

“ But you won’t deny, mamma — ” 

“I shall deny or affirm — nothing! It is my turn for 
questions. What have you and Tom been at loggerheads 
over this morning ? ” 

Dorothy laughed gleefully. “We got into the most 
ridiculous argument.” 

“ I was sure it was that when I heard the rush of feet, 
and the click of your lock. How often have I warned 
you against taking Tom too seriously ! You know he can 
never resist the temptation of teasing you.” 

“ I ought, after twenty-three years’ experience of him 
and his ways. But my utmost indignation was justified 
on this occasion.” The girlish laugh broke again. 

“I cannot conceive how you and Tom can find any 
fresh topics for argument, though I must admit you both 
are fertile in inventing them.” 


TWO WOMEN 


29 


“But neither you nor Mrs. Amoury could imagine 
what we drifted into this time. It all came of that last 
serial we have been reading. The literary work was well 
done and the wind-up was thrilling, but it just grazed the 
edge of a tragedy.” 

“ 0 Dorothy, don’t stop ! This is getting interesting ! ” 
exclaimed Mrs. Amoury. 

“ It came down to a fine point with us both at last. It 
was, in short, whether a woman had not as good a right, 
in the nature of things, to propose marriage as a man.” 

At this point both the ladies, with an amused exclama- 
tion, laid down some ornamental work with which their 
hands, rather than their attention, had been engaged that 
morning, and gave their undivided interest to the speaker. 

“ Tom,” continued Dorothy, sure of the instinctive 
sympathy of her audience, “ took high ground — insisted 
that she had this right ; that it was only another in- 
stance of the tyranny of habit and tradition that the 
woman should, under all circumstances, be debarred 
from taking the initiative in a matter where her own 
interests were so deeply involved. I, of course, took the 
opposite side, and supported it with all the eloquence at 
my command. I brought forward the feelings of all ages 
and peoples, savage and civilized, the instincts of woman- 
hood, the natural relations of the sexes, and ever so much 
more. The discussion was kept up with the mutual for- 
bearance and amiability which distinguish our talk on 
occasions of this sort.” 

The ladies laughed heartily. “It must have been 
delightful ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Amoury. “ If I could 
only have done a bit of eavesdropping while that dia- 
logue was going on ! ” 

“ But you shall have it all the same, dear Mrs. Amoury,” 


30 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT S TO-MORROWS 


subjoined Dorothy, and to the intense amusement of the 
small audience, she repeated the discussion which, an 
hour ago, had taken place on the piazza. 

“Now, I appeal to you both ! ” she concluded. “ Didn’t 
that last insinuation of Tom’s require heroic measures ? 
Wasn’t I justified in locking him out ?” 

Before Mrs. Draycott could rejoin, — the laughter must 
have its way first, — Dorothy’s quick ears caught the 
sound of approaching steps. She sprang to the deep 
window-seat and disposed herself there, the impersonal 
tion of demure guilelessness. 

Tom tapped at the door, which stood slightly ajar. It 
sprang wide at his mother’s response. He removed his 
cap and bowed to the ladies. Like his sister, he entered 
with a jest. “ Are these sacred precincts once more open 
to common mortals ? ” 

Before anybody could reply, he caught sight of 
Dorothy, and burst out : “ Oh, you ubiquitous young 
woman! Image of lamb-like gentleness and dove-like 
meekness ! The sight of you is enough to drive a fellow 
into expletives ! ” 

“ 0 Tom, must you begin now ! ” admonished his 
mother. 

“Begin! Do you know what indignities I have en- 
dured at that gentle being’s hands ? Behold her now ! 
Yet within the last hour she has actually turned the key 
of her door on me!” 

“ Will you be good enough to state the reason ? ” in- 
quired Dorothy very gravely. 

“There was none, unless that I had the courage to 
avow my honest convictions in the face of feminine scorn 
and ridicule.” 

“Now, Tom, don’t hedge in that fashion!” exclaimed 


TWO WOMEN 


31 


Dorothy, whose speech still retained an occasional echo 
of her brother’s Sophomoric slang. “ I have told mamma 
and Mrs. Amoury all about our talk and of your shame- 
ful implication when you were at last driven to the 
wall ! ” 

“ I might have known you had given your own version 
of the affair, from your Innocent Abigail expression ! 
But I have only to say ” — Tom straightened his shoul- 
ders and threw his head slightly back : “ I may become 
the target for feminine ridicule ; I may have keys turned 
on me ; I may suffer the pangs of martyrdom, but I have 
unfurled my colors and I shall defend them to the last ! ” 
“ That sounds heroic, Tom ; it certainly was melo- 
dramatic ! ” commented his mother. 

Dorothy’s eyes radiated fun when she spoke next. 
“ I can think of one example — only one — which shows 
up Tom’s position in all its absurdity ! ” 

“ Let us have it, by all means ! ” rejoined Tom, as, with 
the face of a young judge, he seated himself in front of 
her on the arm of an easy-chair. 

“ Just imagine mamma proposing to papa ! ” 

The preposterousness of this suggestion would, of 
course, be most apparent to those who knew Mrs. Dray- 
cott best. There was one grand chorus of laughter, in 
which she herself joined, though the slightest possible 
flush crept into her cheek. “ Oh, you insufferable chil- 
dren ! ” she exclaimed. In the next breath she added, 
“ If you have any doubts on the subject — ask your 
father ! ” 

“ I should prefer to be excused,” replied Dorothy, with 
eyes still radiating fun. “ Papa would be indignant that 
anybody dared to suggest such a thing.” 

“Well, Grace, it is your turn now,” interposed Mrs. 


82 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Amoury when the subsidence of the mirth gave her a 
chance. 

“ I am not prepared to answer at a moment’s notice. 
The question has more than one side. No doubt I am 
a good deal under the influence of what Tom calls social 
tradition and prejudice. There may be cases in which it 
would be right — perhaps a duty — for a woman to act 
or speak. She must judge for herself. But it strikes 
me that the old way, which has the force of an unwritten 
law, has its roots in primeval instincts, in essential dif- 
ferences of sex, and in inborn reserves which are an 
inalienable part of womanhood.” 

“ You have left me nothing to add, Grace,” said Mrs. 
Amoury. 

Tom lifted his tall figure from the chair-arm and 
bowed low to his sister. “ The verdict has gone against 
me, Dorothy,” he said. 

Before she could answer, her mother spoke again. 
“ But whether I am right or not in the feeling I have 
expressed, I want just for a moment to set this whole 
matter before you, Tom, in a personal light.” 

“ I don’t get your drift, mater.” 

“If it should ever come to choosing for yourself, my 
dear boy, I hope,” her voice was a little tremulous, “ your 
own heart will forestall all need of another’s speaking 
for you.” 

Tom made a wry face. “ But what if a fellow happens 
to find his heart a most impervious organ ? In time he 
must begin to doubt its susceptibilities in these direc- 
tions. Dollikins and I are left out. You and papa seem 
to absorb all the sentiment of the family.” 

But after the serious tenderness of his mother’s words, 
the joke had, even to himself, a kind of false ring. 


TWO WOMEN 


33 


u It is high time we stopped this nonsense,” interposed 
Dorothy. “ Dear Mrs. Amoury, we will be very sensible 
young people for the rest of the day.” 

A new note was struck. The talk which followed was 
in a different vein. 

Dorothy broke in suddenly. “ 0 mamma, what do you 
think! We had a lovely surprise. A robin sang for us 
in the rose-bush on the terrace.” 

“ Did you hear it, my dear ! It sang for us on the 
hawthorn twig, and it seemed to be singing out of the 
heart of May.” 

“ That brave little robin ! It shall be remembered 
above all the summer birds that have gone into silence. 
I will paint it on the hawthorn bough in November.” 

At that instant the lunch-hour struck. 

While they were at table, Tom was summoned to the 
telephone. He came back with a message from his 
father, who, with John Amoury, had decided to return 
early in the afternoon and have “ an up-hill and down- 
dale ” drive with their wives. 

“ Do you remember, Grace ? ” asked Mrs. Amoury with 
her infectious laugh, and setting down her tea-cup with 
emphasis. “They both insisted they should be breath- 
lessly busy until evening, but this day has thrown its 
bewitchment over them. When they met at lunch, they 
both voted to 1 throw business to the dogs/ ” 

“ And our names are left out in all these ‘ merry junket- 
ing ’ plans ! ” remarked Tom to his sister, as, with a rather 
indolent air, he helped himself to a fresh bunch of 
grapes. 

Old Ironsides had, two years before, gone the way of 
equine old age, and been succeeded by a handsome span 
named, respectively, “ Cavalier ” and “ Roundhead.” One 


84 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


was a dark silky chestnut— a graceful creature; the other 
was a rich bay of a somewhat sturdier build, but a fine 
specimen of horseflesh. Despite the historical antago- 
nism of their names, they worked splendidly in harness. 
As the pair would be out this afternoon, Sphinx would 
be the only animal left in the stalls. The little mare 
was now more than ten years old, but she carried her 
head as proudly and took the road with as fleet a pace as 
she had done in her friskiest youth. She became each 
year, if possible, a more precious possession to her mis- 
tress. 

“ You and I will grow old together, Sphinx ! ” the girl 
would say, as she patted the mare’s neck. 

“I have engaged to go to the Wallings’ garden party.” 
Dorothy spoke now in a pause of the talk. “ It is to be 
an impromptu affair gotten up in honor of this day. It 
is a shame to keep Sphinx in her stall in such weather. 
Can’t you take her out, Tom ? ” 

He had never been astride her in these six years. He 
sometimes drove her when his mother or Dorothy accom- 
panied him ; but it was tacitly understood that nobody 
should mount the mare but her mistress. 

Dorothy had spoken impulsively. As she turned to 
her brother with the words, a flash of consciousness came 
and went in his face. She caught it. A far-away sum- 
mer afternoon sprang to life in the girl’s memory. She 
sat once more in her chamber and heard the mad roar of 
the hurricane outside, and did not heed it because of the 
more awful tempest which was shaking heart and brain 
to their centre. 

His sister’s light question had also sprung the old 
memory into vivid life with Tom Draycott. He, too, was 
suddenly living it all over again — that one hour which 


TWO WOMEN 


35 


had wrought some enduring change in his proud, arrogant 
youth ! He was out in the wild welter of the storm ; he 
heard the deafening roar of the winds; he saw the livid 
green of the towering waves ; he felt the old agony and 
despair clutch at his heart. 

They had risen from the table. The young people 
had not alluded to that hour for years ; but Dorothy had 
a flashing intuition of all her light words, like the wav- 
ing of a magician’s hand, had started to life. 

She stepped swiftly to Tom’s side ; she laid her hand 
on his arm. The women, absorbed in their talk, did not 
notice. 

“ Tom,” — there was a pleading note in the low-pitched 
voice, — “ I want you should take Sphinx out this after- 
noon.” 

She saw the look in his eyes which she remembered 
as he bent over her bedside when she lay helpless and 
stricken at her very life. 

“ Well, then, there is no use kicking — Sphinx and I 
have no choice but to go if you insist upon it ! ” 

Dorothy understood perfectly all the jaunty air, the 
jesting words, were meant to hide. 


36 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


III 

SOUNDINGS IN DEEPER SEAS 

A full moon was in the November sky and all about 
her the shining hosts of the stars. Down below, the 
moonlight had wrought its old miracle, and the earth lay 
in a weird white radiance — all its bareness covered, 
all its scarred, frost-bitten places transfigured, by that 
mystic loveliness of light. 

At Red Knolls four people came out on the piazza, 
Mr. and Mrs. Draycott being detained awhile in doors 
after dinner. 

John Amoury walked with Dorothy, and his wife with 
Tom Draycott. Was it the moonlight, or those two fig- 
ures in front of her, which brought up the memory of 
another moonlit evening, with the same tall girl and a 
taller youth by her side, that made a sudden diversion in 
the animated talk Tom and Mrs. Amoury were having 
with each other ? 

As she was a woman and a tactful one, she approached 
the subject with some feminine indirection. “ I wonder 
if you have forgotten, Tom, a moonlit walk which you 
and I had together on our piazza at Amoury Roost more 
than six years ago ? ” 

“ My dear Mrs. Amoury, you and I have had so many 
delightful walks both at Amoury Roost and at Red 
Knolls ! ” 


SOUNDINGS IN DEEPER SEAS 


37 


The lady lifted her fine dark brows quizzically. “ 0 
Tom, that was very handsome, but I feel just a little as 
though I had been robbing somebody ! ” 

“ Who, pray ? ” 

“Well, some fair young girl of that gallant speech.” 

“ But it would not have been half so true in the fair 
young girl’s case.” 

“ Of course if I pretended to doubt that, it would be an 
affectation. But, to be serious again. This perfect night 
— the stillness, the moonshine — has brought up that 
other vividly to me. It all seems only yesterday. You 
and Dorothy had come to us for a fortnight the summer 
your father and mother were in California.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I remember now. Dorothy and I were 
talking of it only this morning. She went on a lark 
with your dozen and lust escaped — Heaven knows 
what!” 

“ But she did escape, and her act was a very brave one. 
Can you recall a prophecy I made as we walked together 
the night after all that had happened ? ” 

“I don’t — at this instant; I must be very stupid.” 

“ I told you Dorothy was going to be a very beautiful 
woman.” 

“ I remember, Mrs. Amoury.” 

“ Look at her now as she lifts her face to John, who is 
saying something which interests her, and deny, if you 
can, my prophetic flash at that moment ! ” 

“I can’t deny it. You won’t expect, however, that a 
man will go into raptures over his own sister. He leaves 
the adjectives to the other fellows ! ” 

They walked a minute or two in silence. 

Then Mrs. Amoury put the question to which all this 
talk had skilfully led up. “ I remember your classmate, 


38 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


young Fallowes, was with us at that time. What has 
become of him, Tom ? ” 

“I wish I could answer your question more intelli- 
gently. I have not had a syllable from him in years ! 
One would almost fancy he must be in hiding, only that 
would be so unlike Fallowes.” 

“He struck John and me as a very fine fellow.” 

“He was.” Tom warmed to his subject. “I knew 
Fallowes thoroughly. The fibre there was sound to the 
core. We were great cronies during our last years at 
Harvard. We made plans for meetings after our gradua- 
tion. We had arranged especially for a tramp through 
the White Mountains, and . a month among the Maine 
lakes, when news of his uncle’s sudden illness shut down 
on all that. Philip set out for Colorado at once; his 
uncle died soon after his arrival. This uncle was his 
only near living relative, and not only brought up 
his nephew, but had almost sole management of his 
fortune. Philip used to talk about him often ; he simply 
adored the man. I have a feeling, less from what Philip 
wrote than what he did not, that he had hard lines after- 
ward. It would be awfully rough on him, too, after the 
easy, luxurious life he had led. He wrote that he was 
going up into a remote mountain mining-camp to have 
a hand-to-hand tussle with fortune. I suspect that he 
has been leading a primeval life in those wild mining 
regions. One can hardly imagine how he would get on 
there with his tastes and habits. If I were not,” con- 
tinued Tom in half monologue now, “ at such a critical 
stage in the up-hill work of a newly fledged lawyer, I 
would cut everything and rush off to Colorado on a hunt 
for Philip Fallowes.” 

While this talk was transpiring, another characteris- 


SOUNDINGS IN DEEPER SEAS 


39 


tic one was going on between the pair just ahead. John 
Amoury and Dorothy Draycott’s fondness for each other 
dated from her infancy. Indeed, the man who had so 
charming a personality, and so powerful an attraction for 
all sorts of people, — old and young, wise and foolish, 
— often had queried with himself whether a girl of his 
own could have been more precious to him than this tall, 
brown-eyed daughter of his friend. 

“ Oh, what a wonderful night ! ” Dorothy broke out 
suddenly after an interchange of sparkling jests and 
playful talk. “Just look at those shadows around the 
shrubbery — line and mass — drawn black against the 
moonlight.” 

“ Yes ; I have been observing them. One feels the in- 
adequacy of words when one stands face to face with the 
loveliness of a night like this.” 

“ But do find something to say, Mr. Amoury,” pleaded 
Dorothy with the eager insistence of youth. “ One can- 
not stand quite dazed and dumb in the presence of all 
this — when one has the gift of speech.” 

He considered a moment. “There is a line of old 
Homer’s which always strikes me as having something 
of the elemental power and simplicity of nature about it. 
I never' repeat it to myself without feeling the grandeur, 
the breadth, of horizon in it. 

“ * And when in heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful.’ ” 

She drew a long breath. “ Oh, yes ! that has the large- 
ness of the sky over us. Am I hopelessly stupid, Mr. 
Amoury, that while I do enjoy Homer, — at least when 
papa reads him, — I still miss something — I cannot tell 


40 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

what ? I can only feel it. It seems to me it is the some- 
thing which this night means.” 

She spoke slowly, almost shyly, as though seeking for 
her words and half afraid of them. 

“I understand, Dorothy. It is something which the 
old Greeks, with all the immortal loveliness of their art, 
never attained — the ‘Spiritual element in Nature.’ ” 

“ Ah, I see what you mean.” 

“ And in perceiving that ‘ Idea which lies behind all 
beauty and interprets it, lies the real glory of our own 
age — its supremacy over all which has preceded it.’ 
Dorothy,” drawing himself up sharply, “what am I 
saying to you?” 

“Just what I like to hear. Do go on ! ” 

He laughed. “ How some of your gilded youth would 
want to shoot me — an old fellow — walking with you in 
this moonlight and talking in such a strain ! ” 

“ As though I would not rather walk with you in this 
moonlight and hear you talk in just such a strain, than with 
all the gilded youth between here and the Arctic Circle ! ” 
A little later, when the talk had slipped to a lighter 
key, John Amoury said: “Our hunter’s moon must go 
the way of the harvest moon in a few nights, and then 
all the year will have left for us is December’s ; and we 
do not walk the piazzas, my dear, under December moons, 
either at Red Knolls or Amoury Roost.” 

“ There is something which I very much want,” broke 
in Dorothy suddenly, with a kind of eager playfulness. 
“ ‘ But beggars ’ — you know the old adage.” 

“Of course I know. But what possible application 
can it have at this moment ? ” 

“ Only this ; I should like to name the date of my next 
visit to Red Berry Roads.” 


SOUNDINGS IN DEEPER SEAS 


41 


“If you have any choice of times, you certainly are 
the one to name it. Of course there can never be a time 
or season when the latch-key is not open to you.” 

“Yes; I do know! I want to come again when your 
dozen have their week. I have never forgotten ours at 
Amoury Boost so long ago — with your pets. It was 
immense ! ” 

“I remember that visit distinctly. But all the fun 
just grazed the edge of a tragedy when somebody, very 
rash and very heroic, rushed out into the highway, and 
snatched a small, sun-browned biped, crooning in the hot 
sand, blissfully unconscious of his peril, from under the 
horse’s feet.” 

Dorothy laughed a little nervously. “It was very 
rash, I know ; but it saved his little bones, and harmed 
nobody’s bigger ones. Now, about the dozen, Mr. Am- 
oury ? ” 

“ My dear child, come and see ! They are a bouncing 
set now — boys and girls — straggling up through their 
teens. Their manners — between four walls — have rather 
evolved ; but set them down in a field or in the woods, 
and screechings and war-whoops assert the original 
savage.” 

Dorothy’s eyes sparkled. “ Oh, that is refreshing ! 
My sympathies are all with your dozen. I am conscious 
of a fibre which thrills with fellow-feeling.” 

John Amoury glanced at the girl standing by his side 
in the flower of her girlhood. His heart yearned over 
her with a great, manly tenderness. What destiny, he 
asked himself, awaited the young creature, so careless 
and glad and confident ? When the girl’s nature should 
unfold into the woman’s, when the great decision came 
on which all her future was staked, would she, so ten- 


42 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT'S TO-MORROWS 

derly shielded, so carefully reared, choose wisely for 
herself ? They had paused for a moment while they 
looked out into the darks and lights of the wide stillness. 

A scene in the drawing-room at Amoury Roost sud- 
denly recurred to him. He saw Dorothy cross the thresh- 
old, and a tall, handsome young fellow turn white and 
dazed and dumb at the entrance of that fair slip of a 
girl. 

“ Dorothy,” he asked, as they turned from the piazza 
corner and resumed their walk, “ do you know what has 
become of Tom’s chum — that young Fallowes ? ” 

His wife behind him was just approaching the same 
subject with Tom Draycott; but by slower methods and 
with vastly more tact. 

“What in the world has made you think of him 
now ? ” 

The surprise in her tone put John Amoury on his 
guard. 

“ What bungling work I have made of it ! ” he solilo- 
quized. “Evelyn would have done it so much more 
adroitly ! ” But he proved himself equal to the occasion. 

“ It must have been our talk just now. You know he 
ran across Tom at Red Berry Roads and stayed with us 
a day or two. A fine fellow, I thought.” 

“ Tom certainly thinks so. But really, I have not seen 
him since that time. You know I was at Smith College 
during Tom’s last two years at Harvard. Mr. Fallowes’s 
uncle died immediately after his nephew’s graduation ; 
he has been West ever since, I believe. Tom says he 
does not write often, and fancies there was some trouble 
in money matters. It seems to me there always is when 
anybody dies ! But Tom thinks more of Philip Fallowes 
than any of his classmates.” 


SOUNDINGS IN DEEPER SEAS 


48 


If the memory of those two young moonlit walks came 
up to Dorothy Draycott now, it was in no atmosphere of 
romance. Young Fallowes was still to her “ a fine fellow, 
her brother’s friend.” Six years is a long time in a girl’s 
life, and they had rather dimmed his personality to her 
memory. 

Mr. and Mrs. Draycott came out on the piazza, and 
there was a new grouping of partners. In the talk which 
followed there were pauses, even long silences, when the 
heart of the night seemed to draw them to itself. 

When, in the late evening, they were all once more 
gathered in the library, Mrs. Amoury said: “ There 
comes a time when there are no more birds to sing in 
the mornings around Amoury Eoost, and the last flower 
has blossomed by the roadside, and then John says: 
‘The time has come again for Red Knolls.’ You should 
hear the tone in which he says that ! ” 

And Mrs. Draycott rejoined: “This morning Donald 
said to me, ‘We have had many friends, Grace, dear and 
welcome at the long feast of the year ; but we have kept 
the best wine until now. John and Evelyn are with us 
to-day.’ ” 

Before the evening closed, Mr. Draycott made a con- 
fession. “ I wrote aunty Dayles a letter last week 
which I kept even from you, Grace, until events should 
ultimate. I heard from her to-day, and the upshot of 
it all is she has agreed to come to Red Knolls for the 
holidays.” 

A chorus from delighted voices followed this announce- 
ment. 

“ I want another of that little woman’s stories to take 
across seas with me,” remarked John Amoury. 


44 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


IV 

HOW ONE FATHER TALKED TO HIS SON ABOUT BUSINESS 

The story I am trying to tell yon must turn backward 
now to a talk which Tom Draycott had with his father, - 
about a month after the young man’s graduation. 

This talk, which formed a crisis in his career, took 
place one evening after dinner, when the two happened 
to be alone in the library, with a prospect of some unin- 
terrupted hours. It was by no means a sudden impulse 
on the part of the elder man. He had looked forward to 
it, more or less, for years. The talk opened with a jest. 
That was apt to be the case with Donald Draycott when 
any serious matter was pending. 

“Tom,” breaking out suddenly into the silence, as 
the speaker looked up from the paper which had ap- 
parently absorbed his attention for some time, “ pick up 
your long self, sir, from that lounge where you have 
been lolling for the last hour. What right has a fellow 
with shoulders of your girth and muscles like whipcords, 
to spend his time like an old Turk, stretched luxuriously 
on his divan ! ” 

“If my bones were supine, my brains were astir, 
exclaimed Tom, as he tossed down a magazine and 
vaulted to his feet. “I have been deep in a paper 
on 1 Some Tough Problems of our own Decade.’ It is 
a clever article — sets a fellow to thinking.” 

The young Draycotts had been brought up in an at- 


HOW ONE FATHER TALKED TO HIS SON 45 


mosphere of great freedom of thought and speech with 
their parents. The keen sense of humor — strong in 
every member of the family — played much around the 
talk, — even in its serious moods. In such affectionate 
intimacy, the youngsters often had their jokes over 
parental habits and idiosyncrasies. All this might have 
scandalized parents of a more rigid temper. 

“ Well, sit down here.” Donald Draycott pointed to 
a chair opposite his own. “ Your magazine article may 
be well enough, but I want to stir up your thoughts 
now with problems of a more personal nature.” 

“I am ready, sir.” Tom sat a little more erect; he 
had an instinct of what was coming; he had scented 
it in the air for weeks, — the more keenly, perhaps, 
because he and his father had religiously avoided all 
allusion to the subject. 

“ Well, we won’t waste time beating about the bush.” 
The voice of the elder took the deep, decided key which 
was always impressive. “The time is at hand for you 
to settle the most momentous question — in many as- 
pects — of your life.” 

“I understand, pater. You mean the career I am 
going to choose for myself, — the lines of work, in 
short, on which I shall elect to expend any native fac- 
ulties and forces I may possess.” 

“ That is it precisely. There you sit — you big, strap- 
ping fellow — making me feel, every time I look at you, 
I ought, by good rights, to be an old man. But there 
is no possibility of setting you back a dozen years, as 
I should like to do with both you and Dollikins. You 
are getting on fast with your twenty-second year, and 
you have graduated from Harvard; and you have to 
look the next thing — a very big thing — in the face.” 


46 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

“I never said this before, papa,” said Tom, very 
gravely this time ; “ but I want to make a clean breast 
of it just here. I might have come out with a more 
brilliant record if I had put my full strength into the 
University work. I should be sorry to feel I had dis- 
appointed you there.” 

“ You need never feel it, my boy,” responded Donald 
Draycott with affectionate earnestness. “I was quite 
satisfied — even more — with the result. I suppose every 
conscientious man has your feeling when he looks back 
at the close of his University career. Your father did 
certainly. But many a fellow who stood at the top of 
his class has left the highest watermark of his life there. 
You may be content with your past. The question we 
are to deal with now concerns your future.” 

“It is a question I have been debating with myself 
a good deal since Class Day. It seemed so far off be- 
fore — a question I could put off indefinitely.” 

“Yes; I understand.” The elder man shot a glance 
of kindly perception at his son. “But something has 
happened recently which brings us face to face with 
the question at this time.” 

“ What was it ? ” The monosyllables were sharp with 
interest. 

Donald Draycott had, from this point, the talk for a 
long while to himself. He related at length to his son 
that he had received a call, a few days before, from the 
senior member of the banking firm with which his own 
house had long held intimate business relations. The 
firm was one of the oldest, most conservative in Boston. 
It had weathered all the financial crises of the century. 
It had a well-deserved reputation in the business world 
for solidity and integrity. The banker had, after a few 


HOW ONE FATHER TALKED TO HIS SON 47 

preliminaries, explained the object of his call. He had 
met young Draycott, — sometimes at the bank, some- 
times at his father’s office. He was a shrewd reader 
of men. Tom had, it appeared, made a favorable im- 
pression. As the result of the long interview, the elder 
Draycott had received a letter offering his son a position 
in the old banking-house. It was a fine offer; one which, 
if Tom concluded to accept it, and put all his forces into 
the business, would probably lead, in time, to a partner- 
ship and a fortune. 

“It is my duty to set all these things before you, 
Tom,” continued his father, “in the clearest lights. 
There are hundreds of richer fathers than yours to-day 
in Boston who would jump at such a chance for their 
sons. This senior partner is my friend ; he is inclined, 
for several reasons, to be yours ; his interest and regard 
would, if you entered his firm, be a great point in 
your favor. You understand perfectly that I shall not 
be able to leave you what the world regards a great 
fortune. It has never been my aim to do that. But 
this is, after all, a question you must decide for your- 
self. No man — no affection — can do it wisely for you. 
You must decide it, too, with your eyes open; with a 
clear comprehension of the value which most men, in 
this very material age, set upon wealth; that it seems 
to them the supreme good — the dazzling goal — for 
which they are ready to make any effort, to sacrifice — 
too often — soul and body.” 

“But not the man I have known longest and most 
intimately,” responded Tom ; and now the glance which 
he, in turn, shot at his father was full of reverent 
affection. 

“God forbid — oh, God forbid!” ejaculated the elder 


48 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

man fervently. “But,” he resumed, after a few mo- 
ments’ silence, “it has never been my purpose to under- 
rate all that wealth includes of power, opportunity, and 
high place. You know what these mean ; I do not wish 
you to put the prospect — I might almost say, the cer- 
tainty — of acquiring a fortune away from you without a 
full comprehension of what you are doing. It is a life 
question we are discussing now.” 

“ I see. ” Tom appeared to be studying the patterns 
on the library rug. His father thought he had seldom 
seen his face so serious. “This seems to me,” the 
younger continued, after a prolonged pause, “ a matter in 
which nature — one’s inborn aptitudes and original bent— 
should have the last word. A man ought to be sure — if 
he can — where .the germinal instincts point; the sort of 
work, in short, in which he can put the best and utmost 
of himself.” 

“ Most certainly ! A mistake here would be irretrieva- 
ble. It would mean going more or less handicapped 
through life. It is fair to suppose the Power that 
started us here had some purpose in doing it, and ar- 
ranged the lines on which we should best carry out the 
original intention.” 

“ That means I ought to make sure whether I was pri- 
marily cut out for a business man.” 

“ It means that, first and last. If you choose a business 
life, go ahead, heart and soul ! You will have chosen 
what you can make a noble career. Make money too — 
if you can ! But, from the outset, regard your work 
from its ideal side ! The larger the fortune, the better, 
so that it fertilizes many lives beside your own. But 
don’t go into business merely and solely to make money, 
because it seems the grandest thing in the world to be 


HOW ONE FATHER TALKED TO HIS SON 49 


a rich man. If you do, you Will come out at last — in all 
the real values — a poor one.” 

“ This isn’t the sort of talk, I imagine, one would be 
likely to hear on the great Exchanges of the world ! ” 
Tom spoke in a dry tone. 

“No; the more reason that you should hear it now! 
But your choice is not shut up to the banker’s office. 
There are the professions, for instance.” 

“ I have no tastes in the medical line, and as 
for the clerical — great heavens, pater ! I must be 
a hundred times better man than I am to think of 
that ! ” 

“ Well, is there possibly an inchoate lawyer in you ? ” 

It was, perhaps, less the question than the tone which 
made Tom turn promptly on his father: “Have you ever 
thought that, sir ? ” 

“ I confess the idea has sometimes struck me when I 
have heard you — you young rascal ! — handle an argu- 
ment. Have you yourself ever given it a serious 
thought ? ” 

“ Yes and no. Of course I understood that the time 
would come for me to choose my place and work in the 
world, and buckle down to them. But I could always 
afford to put them off. Your banker’s offer seems to 
have precipitated matters.” 

“ If you decided to-night, I should hardly accept your 
choice as final.” 

Tom rose now, squaring his shoulders and drawing a 
deep breath. “ Of course there are lots of other things,” 
he said ; “ but I have a feeling that this last hour’s talk 
has brought matters to a very practical issue.” He 
paused a moment, walked over to the mantel, leaned an 
arm on it, faced his father, and spoke in a quiet, decided 


E 


50 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

voice. “ Father, it is going to be your banker’s offer or a 
lawyer’s brief with me ! ” 

“ You think so ? Well, having given the business side 
a fair recognition, it is only right the law should have its 
turn now. No words can adequately represent what it 
symbolizes. Think how infinitely noble is the idea of a 
profession which means ‘the building-up of a sense of 
justice in the lives and hearts of men ! ’ If you choose 
the law, let it enlist all your powers and enthusiasms ! 
Be jealous for the honor of your profession! Of course 
there will be the detail and drudgery, — those are inevita- 
ble in any life-work, — but its ideal side is there also — 
never lose sight of that ! ” 

“ You make me feel that you deserve a better son than 
I am. I may never be much of a credit to you, father.” 

Something in Tom’s tone showed these words came 
from his heart. 

Donald Draycott looked at his son as he stood before 
him, one elbow resting on the corner of the mantel, and 
his figure drawn to his full height. Any father might 
have felt a thrill of pride in that manly, large-limbed 
youth, but the response to Tom’s speech came only after 
a few moments’ silence. 

“I will say nothing about the sort of son I may de- 
serve, but there is certainly one thing my children have 
reason to thank me for.” 

What may that be ? ” 

“ For the mother I gave them ! ” 

“ Oh, yes ! The very best mother in the world ! ” sub- 
joined Tom fervently. 

“It seems to me even that cannot be more than the 
truth,” added Donald Draycott with a tender vibration 
in his voice. “ Still,” and his own humorous smile gave 


HOW ONE FATHER TALKED TO HIS SON 51 


a revealing gleam to his face, “ I hope there are millions 
of husbands who to-night would say the same thing of 
their own wives ! I, too, have known many noble and 
lovely women ; but, when it comes to your mother — well ” 
— he broke off suddenly — “a man cannot always say 
what he knows — what he feels — even to his own son.” 

“ Dear little mater ! ” Tom’s laugh was amused only 
on the surface. “ How she would protest if she were to 
hear you say all that ! ” 

Not long afterward Tom was speaking very earnestly. 
" This talk has made me feel ten years older than I did 
when we sat down to breakfast this morning ! ” 

“ That is always the case when a man comes to looking 
the most serious responsibilities of life in the face ; but 
you are not going to shirk things, Tom, because you have 
had such a free and easy-going life of it so far ? ” 

“I certainly don’t intend to, sir.” Tom’s jaws settled 
into the resolute Draycott line. 

" And remember however venerable you may happen 
to feel at this moment, — and the most careless, inconse- 
quent youth has its sane and serious moods, — all your 
life lies before you ! You will barely get well into the 
harness with the opening of the next century ! Think 
of that ! Your real work awaits you there. And what 
a century it is going to be ! It takes no prophet’s vision, 
no statesman’s prescience, to see that it will have enor- 
mous problems to solve, tremendous burdens to bear, 
almost superhuman tasks to achieve. What great tests, 
what grand opportunities, are awaiting the young fellows 
who stand on the threshold of manhood in this decade 
which is wheeling us so fast out of the nineteenth cen- 
tury ! Sometimes I seem to feel in the air a presage of 
the coming tumult, to catch the clamor of voices, the 


52 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

sounds of the fray ! For that next century will not, by 
any means, be smooth sailing for those who are in the 
current of things. It is going to be the field of a mighty 
struggle, political, social, moral. It will try men’s souls. 
But to those who listen wisely, the voices which float 
down are not all of strife and tumult. Sometimes I 
seem to catch glad paeans of triumph, and I feel, I know, 
that they break from the heart of a century, which has 
achieved many a glorious task, which has done God’s 
work in His world, and gained larger hope, freedom, 
blessedness, for humanity.” 

“ I see what mamma means when she insists that you 
have a deep vein of enthusiasm — a gift of eloquent 
expression which, under stimulating circumstances, would 
have developed you into an orator who would have won 
his laurels.” 

“Nonsense.” There was a flash of amusement in 
Donald Draycott’s eyes. “ Your mother’s opinion is not 
altogether to be relied on when it comes to an estimate 
of her husband.” 

“At any rate, you have just afforded proof that her 
instincts were not at fault in one case. But after you 
have carried me off into your finer ether and almost 
taken my breath away with your visions and prophecies, 
I want to come down to an inexorable fact or two. You 
say — and very eloquently — how my life-work will lie 
all before me when this century strikes its last hour. I 
shall then be approaching my thirtieth birthday — within 
five years of my meridian.” 

“For all that, Tom, the heft of your work will hold 
over to the next century. You will only get well into 
the traces by the end of this. There is many a hale, 
hearty man breathing the air of this summer night who 


HOW ONE FATHER TALKED TO HIS SON 53 

is older than you will be if you see — to keep to your 
metaphor — the meridian line of the next century. If 
you should, and look back and remember this night, and 
have played your part manfully, you will have learned 
what are the essential things — the things to live and 
die for.” 

“ A fellow ought to be sure he was built of tough mate- 
rial if he expects to hold on to his eightieth birthday, 
which I shall be mighty near doing when I see the new 
year of our Lord nineteen hundred and fifty.” 

Both the men laughed. Had you caught the sound of 
their mirth, you would have been puzzled to say which 
was the elder. 

Indeed, had you looked on the two as they sat together 
in the waning summer evening, you would have been slow 
to believe that the tall, splendid-built youth, stretching 
his length now in the easy-chair on one side of the table, 
could be the son of the man sitting at the other. 

The likeness between the men was not very pro- 
nounced, though Tom had inherited the Draycott height 
and build as well as certain strong facial lines. But 
Donald Draycott looked like a man in the prime of his 
years — one whom a stranger might easily take for the 
brother of his boy. He was close on fifty, yet there was 
only a glimmer of gray in his thick mustache and about 
his temples ; he had the broad chest, the straight, strong 
shoulders of his race ; his face had the powerful charm 
of character and expression, his color-tone was darker 
than his son’s, and the bright kindliness of his eyes 
won the gazer at once, but those deep eyes had also 
flashes of indignation which one seeing was not likely 
to forget. 

At the close of that evening’s talk the father advised 


54 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


his son to take a month for considering the question they 
had been debating. 

One evening at the end of that time, Tom followed his 
father into the library and said simply, “ I have decided, 
father.” 

The elder man put down his paper. Not a muscle of 
his face moved. “Which is it to be, Tom, business or 
the bar ? ” 

“The bar.” 

A real joy leaped in the father’s eyes ; he grasped his 
son’s hand. “I congratulate you, Tom, with all my 
heart.” 

“Yet in all these weeks you have not, by word or 
look, thrown a feather’s weight — either way — into the 
scale.” 

“No; how could I? It was a question for you to 
decide. Now you have done so, I can tell you how 
gratified I am. You have confirmed my deepest convic- 
tions. I have been observing you for years with refer- 
ence to this very question which I foresaw was sure 
some time to come up between us. I have felt your 
innate tendencies were intellectual rather than — in any 
form — commercial. I believe you have chosen the 
most congenial sphere, the one best calculated to unfold 
your highest possibilities. Now, once more, go ahead ! ” 

“That is what I have been admonishing myself to do.” 

“And you will never cast a backward glance to- 
wards — ” 

“ The fleshpots of Egypt. I am no stoic, but I do not 
believe I shall spend my life hankering after them.” 

“ They may not prove so numerous or so tempting as 
they appear. We are in a time of transition. Despite 
our material trend and our millionaires, our wealth does 


HOW ONE FATHER TALKED TO HIS SON 55 


not appear to have the old, solid foundations. New 
things are abroad in the air to-day. No living man has 
prescience to detect what limitations and diversions the 
capital of this generation may undergo in the next.” 

“Well, in any case,” rejoined Tom gayly, “I shall not 
have one of the big fortunes to go down in the general 
scramble.” 

“No; it has always been my aim to secure my chil- 
dren some sources of happiness which money cannot pro- 
vide or take away.” 

“Dear old pater! You have done your part for us 
splendidly ! ” and Tom, with a sudden impulse of grate- 
ful affection, laid his hand on his father’s shoulder. 

That autumn Tom Draycott entered the Harvard Law 
School. 


56 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Y 

MRS. NABBY DAYLES 

One evening, a week after Mr. and Mrs. Amoury ’s 
arrival, the household was gathered together at Red 
Knolls. Mrs. Dayles had appeared only the day before. 
She had brought her soft, quiet presence and the smile 
which looked out of her dark, tender eyes. It seemed 
as though a gracious spirit had stolen in among them, 
and breathed its benediction on the air. 

A moment’s silence fell on the buzz of bright voices 
in the library, warm with evening lights and leaping 
hearth-fire. John Amoury, sitting near his host, seized 
the pause for which he had been on the watch. 

“We want one of your stories to-night, aunty Dayles! 
They have haunted Amoury Roost ever since you visited 
it. I am sure the general voice will approve me.” 

The heaven of the Indian summer had lingered — 
more or less — through these days; but a change was 
coming at last. Low winds were fretting in the shrub- 
beries outside. The stars looked with dim, shy faces be- 
tween gray, herding clouds. There was a bitter chill — 
the breath of the coming winter — in the air. 

There was an animated chorus of assent to John 
Amoury’s proposition, a swift adjustment of the small 
group to a listening attitude. Mrs. Dayles sat near the 
fireplace in a low arm-chair, in which her small, straight 


MRS. NABBY DAYLES 


57 


figure was half swallowed up. These six years had 
hardly touched her. The snowflakes were, perhaps, a 
little thicker in her dark hair. Her eyes went over the 
group with a half-amused, half-deprecatory look. “I 
can’t think of anything which would be likely to interest 
you,” she said, speaking half to herself. “ What kind 
of a story do you want, my dear people ? ” 

“ Let me offer one suggestion,” interposed Tom Dray- 
eott. “We want a story right out of your own experi- 
ence — something in which you have lived and felt and 
acted a chief part. Those about other people arfe inter- 
esting, but the kind I mean go straight as an arrow to 
the mark.” 

“ You hear what Tom says,” added his father. “ I am 
sure we all endorse it.” 

“ But I have never done any great thing — the sort 
that makes a story, you know,” returned the soft, half- 
expostulating voice. “ You forget in what quiet, shaded 
places my life has lain.” 

“It went out of them once into a great glare and 
strife. You remember, Dollikins, those stories aunty 
Dayles used to tell us about the war when we were kids 
at Cherry Barms ? ” 

*“ Remember ! I should think ! ” 

“Well,” supplemented Mrs. Amoury, “that is what 
we want to-night — one of your war-stories ! Only how 
such a quiet, soft-spoken little woman ever brought her- 
self to go to the war ! ” 

“ You can hardly call it that, Mrs. Amoury. I only 
went to the hospitals. It came about very naturally. 
Day after day news would be brought us of the great 
battles, and the sufferings of our troops in field and 
in camp. One after another brave fellow would come 


58 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


home on furlough, who had gone out full of youth and 
strength and courage to do his share for his country ; 
and some would be battered with wounds, and others all 
broken-up with terrible exposure and marches and hard- 
ships. At last I said to my husband: ‘Benjamin, I 
can’t stand this any longer ! The crops are all in. You 
and the children will be in good hands now aunt 
Jerushy has come on for the winter. I’m goin’ to set 
out to do what I can for those poor, sufferin’, homesick 
fellows in the army ! ’ 

“ Benjamin was a man of few words ; he looked at me 
at first as if he thought I had gone stark mad. At last 
he said, ‘ If it conies to a question between you and me, 
of who goes to the war, I am the one to do that.’ 

“ ‘ But you know what the doctor said,’ I answered, 

‘ about your bein’ a dead man in less than three months 
if you set out for the battle-field. It isn’t your call, 
Benjamin, and our boys are too young.’ 

“ Then he cried sharply : ‘ I can’t give you up, Nabby. 
I can’t let you go down there into that rough life — 
among those dreadful scenes.’ 

“ ‘ Benjamin,’ I said, ‘ other households all around us 
have sent their strength and flower to the war. Cherry 
Farms has no soldier to give for the country, only a 
woman for the hospitals ! ’ 

“ That was the beginning of our talk. We had many 
afterward. It was hard on Benjamin ; it wasn’t easy for 
me ; but a month later, I went down to Washington. 

“It was just like entering a new world. It dazed me 
at first — all that noise and crowd and bustle — the long, 
bare, white wards, with their rows of beds, and the sick, 
wounded, and dying men. After a little while, though, I 
got pretty well used to it and went to work with a will. 


MRS. NABBY DAYLES 


59 


There’s no place to teach women what men really are — 
like a big hospital in war time. I’ve seen the tears run- 
ning down many a brown-bearded face because I’d said a 
few kind, encouragin’ w'ords — such as I might to my 
little boys at home — or bathed some big, helpless man’s 
temples, or brought him a cup of tea and tried to chirk 
him up in the way a woman can. In a little while they 
all began to seem like boys to me. I just made up my 
mind that men ” — she went on half to herself — “ the 
proudest and grandest of ’em — get right down to their 
hearts and feelin’s, are only a kind of big children after 
all.” 

The masculine portion of her audience burst into a 
roar of laughter. When this had partially subsided, 
the two wives affirmed that Mrs. Dayles was wholly 
in the right. Dorothy gravely rejoined that “ wives 
must answer for their husbands. So far as her expe- 
rience went with one specimen of the sex whom she had 
known intimately all her life, no truer word had ever 
been spoken.” 

Then Donald Draycott turned to his friend. “It is 
instructive, John Amoury,” he said, “ if not flattering, to 
get at the precise way in which our womankind regard 
us ! ” 

Aunty, or naunty Dayles, as they still oftenest called 
her at Red Knolls, had joined in the laugh. When the 
silence fell again, she said, in a slow, ‘hesitant voice: 
“ You want a story. So many strange things happened 
every day.” 

“ It is my turn to suggest,” remarked Mrs. Draycott. 
“Won’t you tell us the incident you recall oftenest — 
which you would be likely to remember, though all the 
others had vanished ? ” 


60 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


There was a little silence. The small group watched 
the face under the frost-touched hair grow very serious. 
They knew some memory had started into vivid life. 

“ It is a story/’ she began in a half-shy, half -appealing 
tone, “ which I never told to any one but Benjamin. It is 
not one you will laugh at, my dear friends.” 

“ But we have had the laugh already,” said Mrs. Dray- 
cott. 

After that Mrs. Dayles had the talking to herself. “ I 
had been about three months in the hospital. By that 
time I had got pretty well used to the life and the work. 
This last meant a good many different things for me, — 
serving in the wards, helping the doctors and nurses 
when they got into tight places, preparing broths and 
bandages for the sick men — and what, with one thing 
and another, never finding time hang heavy on my 
hands. 

“ That day we were busy as bees. A fresh batch of 
men had been brought in. They had come up on the 
river from the camp-hospitals, and the poor fellows were 
in a sorry plight, with wounds and fevers and the hard- 
ships they had suffered. We filled the wards and did all 
we could to make them comfortable, and a mighty pleas- 
ant change it must have been from the boats and the 
camp-hospitals. 

“ There were so many of ’em that surgeons and cooks 
and nurses had to be spry that day. I was going about 
in one of the wards, serving cordials to the men, when 
suddenly a face among all the strange, pale faces on 
those cots struck me in a curious way. It was a man’s 
— still young and handsome, though it was ghastly 
white, and there were great black hollows under the 
closed eyes. I can see them now as I see you all this 


MRS. NABBY DAYLES 


61 


minute, ; ” continued aunty Dayles, looking at her small 
audience, and yet seeming to gaze at something beyond 
it. “ The blue veins stood out sharp from the thin 
temples. The face, with its light, thick brown beard and 
hair, had a look of much native power and force. It was 
very sad, too, and as I gazed, I knew somehow that the 
sadness was not all for the pain. His breath came slow 
and hard, and he moaned in his sleep. My heart ached 
for him. It was such a strong, proud young manhood 
that lay feeble and wrecked before me. Did anybody — 
I wondered — wait, longing and listening for the foot- 
step and the voice they would never hear again ? 

“ A sunbeam broke suddenly across his pillow : he 
opened his eyes and looked at me. We gazed at each 
other and neither said a word. Then the doctor came 
for me in a hurry. 

“ The next day when I was busy over the broths and 
beef-tea, one of the surgeons came to the door and beck- 
oned to me. I went out into the hall. 

There’s a fellow in the next ward/ he said, ‘who 
has been asking for you. He was brought up yesterday 
with the others. At least, I fancy it was you he was 
after/ 

“ ‘ What makes you think so ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Because he wanted the little woman with the mother 
eyes. I can think of nobody here who answers that de- 
scription quite as well as yourself, Mrs. Dayles/ he said 
with a smile. 

“ It was curious — I had been seeing so many strange 
faces in the last twenty-four hours, — but I knew in an 
instant whom he meant. 

“ 1 Then I will go right off/ I answered, and was turn- 
ing away when he stopped me. ‘ Perhaps I ought to 


62 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

tell you before you go that he is one of the rebs — a devil 
of a fighter, too ! ’ 

“ At those words I felt myself grow hard all over. I 
had never seen a rebel in my life. What I had seen was 
our young boys setting out brave and strong for the war, 
while the mothers stayed at home, the waiting and 
dreading eating their very hearts out. I had had all the 
long agony of the war right before my eyes day and 
night, in that Washington hospital. I didn’t talk much 
about it, but I loved my land with a great love and my 
soul was full of bitterness toward the men who were 
' striking at her life. I had fancied they must be a kind 
of savages, that they couldn’t look or speak like our own 
people. I spoke out sharply. ‘ Oh, I can’t go to a rebel — 
I can’t ! You must get somebody else ! ’ 

“ ‘ All right, Mrs. Dayles,’ the doctor said. ‘ The poor 
fellow can’t hold out long anyhow, so perhaps it won’t 
make much difference; but I’m certain it was you he 
wanted.’ 

“The doctor hurried away, and I went back to my 
work. But things wouldn’t go right. All the time 
something kept saying to me, ‘Nabby Dayles, you know 
it was you he wanted — a dying man — all alone in a 
hospital! It will haunt you the rest of your life if 
you don’t go now.’ 

“At last I put down my work and started for the 
ward. On my way I met the surgeon. ‘ Doctor, I’m 
goin’,’ I said. 

“ He looked at me a moment with his shrewd smile. 

‘ I expected it, Mrs. Dayles,’ he answered. 

“ When I reached the sick man, I knew the doctor was 
right ; he couldn’t hold out much longer. 

“ ( Did you want to speak to me, sir ? ’ I tried to say 


MRS. NABBY DAYLES 


63 


it kindly, seeing him in that case ; but I had seen our 
own soldiers look just like that; - 1 couldn’t help remem- 
bering. 

“ He didn’t speak at first ; he kept his eyes on me. 
They were bigger and sadder than before. I began to 
think he must know how I was feeling about him. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ he said at last, in a strained, hollow voice. ‘ It 
was you I wanted. I saw you standing at the foot of 
the bed last night. There was a look in your eyes — I 
have been thinking ever since I would be glad to have 
such a look the last thing I could carry out of the world. 
It might follow me a little way into the dark.’ 

“ When he said that, in such a hopeless way, in such 
a slow, hollow voice, all the hardness melted right out 
of me. I bent over him and laid my hand on his. ‘ Is 
there anything I can do for you, my friend ? ’ I asked. 

There is nothing — thank you.’ He spoke in the 
same quiet, hopeless tone. But for all that I bathed his 
temples and arranged his pillows, and all the time he 
kept that bright, searching, hopeless gaze on my face. 
I knew at last there was something he wanted to tell me, 
that he could not die in peace unless he did it. 

“ At last he spoke. ‘ 1 have seen my mother — my 
poor, dead mother — with just that look in her eyes, 
sometimes. It was that made me send for you.’ 

“ ‘ And now,’ I said, ‘ I have come. If there is anything 
you want to tell me, any message you would like sent to 
another, you may trust me as you would trust her.’ 

“‘I am sure of that,’ he answered; ‘but there is no 
message. My own family are all dead, and my nearest 
kin are angered and estranged.’ His white lips quivered 
a moment ; then he said : ‘ I have not been a good man. 
I broke my mother’s heart.’ 


64 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“ I saw what the trouble was now — a great pain and 
remorse, a world of dark memories and regrets struggling 
in his soul. I could think of no words to help or com- 
fort him. 

“ But he must have read in my eyes all that I felt ; for 
in a few moments he put out his hand and clasped mine, 
and began to talk of his life. He had been an only son : 
his father had died when he was a mere boy ; his mother 
had adored and indulged him as widowed mothers are 
apt to their only sons ; he had followed his own will and 
gone the wild ways of careless, headstrong youth, and at 
last had fallen on evil days, among vicious companions ; 
he drank, he gambled — it was the story of the prodigal 
son over again. 

“ I tried to check him here, for every word had been 
uttered with a hollow voice and gasping breath. ‘It 
hurts you to tell me all this/ I said. ‘ If it would do 
you any good, I would listen ; but I want to help you in 
some better way than that.’ 

“ ‘ I know you do/ and he held my hand tighter. ‘ It 
is not the kind of story to tell you, but there was nobody 
else/ 

“ When I heard him say that with the despairing look 
and appealing eyes, my heart yearned over him with an 
unutterable pity. Half an hour ago we had never ex- 
changed a word — he had fought against my people — I 
did not even know his name, yet in his last strait he had 
turned to me, and my heart was answering him as if he 
had been my own boy ! 

“I think he must have felt this; for after he had 
looked at me a minute or two, he said, in those hollow, 
struggling tones, ‘It isn’t that I’m afraid — I can die 
like a man — as I would on the battle-field when the 


MRS. NABBY DAYLES 


65 


time came ; but it is the thought of that wasted, ruined 
life which lies behind me, and of what a true, pure, 
noble thing God meant it to be. 0 little woman, stand- 
ing there with your pitying eyes, it is that life that I 
have got to carry with me out into the dark ! There is 
no help for it ! ’ 

“ In the silence I could not think of a word to say. It 
seemed to me I would have laid down my life joyfully to 
have helped him ; but all the blessed words and promises 
with which we comfort ourselves and others in life’s 
hardest straits, failed me then. For a minute a great 
darkness grew all around me ; I could only see those two 
big, hopeless eyes staring at me — at me — standing there 
by the low cot without a word to say, and I knew each 
moment the great tide was bearing him farther away. 

“ Then the words came — I don’t know where or how, 
or that I had ever thought of them before, but I heard 
them then, clear and sweet and solemn. In all those 
weeks at the hospital I had learned a good deal of the 
soldiers’ talk. I knew what chain-guard and picket- 
guard and a good many other army terms meant as well 
as though I had been on long marches too. 

“ Then the speech came of itself ! I bent over him, 
so that he should not lose one word. ‘No!’ I said. ‘I 
stand here and tell you “No” a thousand times. When 
you and death go out together, you will carry something 
beside that wronged, wasted, ruined life of yours — you 
will carry your repentance, as I have seen it in your 
eyes. “ The Lord is tliy Rereward ! ” ’ 

“That was the Word which had come to me — which 
I spoke ! 

“The soldier knew, as every man in the army did, 
what the rear-guard meant — what care and watch and 

F 


66 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

safety in the long marches, what succor and security if 
the enemy was at hand ! 

“ In a moment a flash — a light — had come into his 
face. There was a little, gasping cry. I cannot describe 
it, but I knew then that my words had gone straight to 
the heart of his pain and despair. A new life and hope 
crept into his eyes. It was like the daylight, which 
grows in the east until the darkness is all gone. I 
trembled lest he should die of the sudden surprise and 
change. 

“ Afterward he spoke. 1 1 see what you mean ! I 
• believe it is true, true , true ! ’ There was such a new life 
in his voice ! 

“ Later he said other things. I had to lean close to 
catch the words ; but I shall remember them, and the 
dying look and tones, until it comes my turn to go and 
find out how much we do remember, on the great Other 
Side, of the things which happened here ! 

“At last he dropped off into' a sleep, peaceful and 
sweet as a child’s. There was a child’s peace in his face, 
too ! 

“ Then the doctor came for me. 

“ As I followed him out into the ward, my heart was 
like one of my own cherry-trees full of singing orioles in 
blossoming-time. I had spoken the right words in the 
sorest human need. It seemed to me I could have gone 
out and sent them shouting and rejoicing over all the 
world, like that old Christmas song of the Shepherds ! I 
wanted to breathe them into every heart that was dark- 
ened and harrowed with memories and remorses. I, 
too, had entered into all the infinite meanings of the 
words, — their sweetness of consolation, their blessedness 
of healing, their preciousness of hope. I knew then they 


MRS. NABBY DAYLES 


67 


were words to live or to die by : ‘ The Lord is thy 

.REREWARD ! ’ 

“Late that night the doctor called me. ‘You must 
come at once/ he said, ‘ or it will be too late ! ’ 

“When I reached the soldier’s cot, he knew me. I 
took his cold hand in mine. The smile on his face was 
peaceful as a baby’s when it wakes up and sees its 
mother bending over the cradle. His lips moved a little. 
I bent down close to him. ‘There is a great shining 
behind — where all the dark was ! ’ he whispered. Then 
he repeated once more the words I had brought him. 
They were the last he ever said. I sometimes wonder if 
they were the first he spoke again.” 

The next day Mr. and Mrs. Amoury sailed on the 
Cephalonia. 


68 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


VI 

WHETHER DAISY ROSS FORGOT 

“ Did you speak to me, Dakie ? ” 

* “ Certainly I did — three times! What a brown study 

you are in, Daisy ! ” 

There was a great contrast in the voices. The first 
had the clear soprano sweetness of childhood ; the other 
was full of young masculine strength, keyed to some 
playfulness now, like that one uses to small, tender 
things or to some creature one is fond of. 

Dake Cramley and Daisy Ross were sitting together in 
the small, neatly furnished room at the head of the first 
flight of stairs in a large, substantial house — one of a 
block of brown-stone facades fronting a grassy area in 
a quiet, pleasant street at the South End. This apart- 
ment had been reserved as a sitting-room for the pair by 
Mrs. J emima Bray — the mistress of the house. It was 
the habit of the two to come here after dinner and have 
their evening talks, as they had formerly done in Mrs. 
Bray’s dingy little room at the North End. 

It is more than six years now since Dake Cramley car- 
ried the small, clinging, scared creature in his arms over 
the ancient threshold. Daisy was then hardly past 
infancy, and Dake was still at an age when life may 
prove plastic to new influences and environment. 

Less than two years after that event, the dwelling at 
the North End, which had preserved, through all its later 


WHETHER DAISY ROSS FORGOT 


69 


shabbiness, a certain air of ancient dignity, succumbed to 
fate. A company of capitalists purchased the site, which 
was occupied in an incredibly short period by a tall, 
rather garish-looking business block. This event had 
proved the turning-point in Mrs. Bray’s fortunes. She 
owed this, and never lost sight of the obligation, to 
Dake Cramley — the youth whose shabby exterior had 
occasioned her secret misgivings before she consented to 
give him a seat at her crowded table and an attic lodg- 
ing under her roof, and to the homeless little waif he 
had brought to her a month later, and who had walked 
straight into her heart. 

Of course the Draycotts now learned the fate which 
was impending over the North End boarding-house. A 
number of conferences took place between a small group 
of people, including the Amouries and the head of the 
great manufacturing house where Dake Cramley was em- 
ployed, and the result was that Mrs. Bray had a power- 
ful backing, by means of which a new house and mostly 
new furnishings were secured at the South End. 

Mrs. Jemima Bray rose to the occasion. In her new 
and agreeable environment her native New England fac- 
ulty asserted itself, and surprised her friends by the 
manner in which she met the requirements of her novel 
position as mistress of a house smarter than anything to 
which her loftiest imagination had ever aspired. 

Dake Cramley exchanged his small stuffy attic for a 
sunny back chamber, and Daisy was installed, to quote 
Mrs. Bray, “in the puttiest little nest of a room ever 
mortal head laid itself down in.” It had white rugs and 
soft lace draperies and tasteful furnishings in blue and 
white — all of which had been contributed and arranged 
by Dorothy Draycott. 


70 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

Daisy came over to Dake’s side now and stood beside 
him with just a shade of wistfulness in her face. She 
looked not far — either way — from her tenth birthday. 
Her eyes still held the gentian’s blue in their dark bright- 
ness. The dandelion seemed to have spilled its own May- 
gold among the rings of hair which meshed themselves 
around her temples, and clung in her neck. People still 
stopped to gaze at her on the street as they had done in 
those long-ago summer evenings when she first walked 
% in the Public Garden, her little hand clasped in Dake 
Cramley’s. 

“ Maybe I was in the least bit of a brown study,” said 
the voice in its clear, soft key. It struck him there was 
a touch of reserve in her manner, a slight effort in the 
lifting of those golden-lashed lids. He knew Daisy like 
a book. 

“ Well, am I not to know all about it ? ” tone and look 
half playful, half earnest. “ I shall be jealous of your 
brown studies if I am not to share them.” 

A burst of sweet laughter filled the room. “ 0 
Dakie, what a very odd thing to be jealous of ! ” 

“Perhaps; but men are very odd creatures, Daisy. 
They are apt to be jealous and curious too.” 

“ They are ? ” taking him half seriously and seating 
herself in a low, pretty cretonne-cushioned chair which 
had been sent her last year, a Christmas gift from Eed 
Knolls. “ I never supposed such things of them.” 

“ Why not ? ” hiding a smile under his dark mustache. 

“I don’t know.” She twisted her small fingers to- 
gether meditatively. “I suppose it must be because 
men are so big and strong. One wouldn’t think they 
could have any such small feelings.” 

“ Small feelings don’t depend on size or strength. 


WHETHER DAISY ROSS FORGOT 


71 


Here I sit, a case in point ! I am a rather big fellow, as 
you know, and I can beat most men when it comes to 
handling a heavy weight ; but I am being devoured by 
what you call ‘ such small feelings,’ at this very moment.” 

Daisy caught a twinkle in the black eyes which neu- 
tralized the solemn tones. 

“ You are making fun of me, Dakie.” 

“ A little, but I will be very serious and honest now. 
I want to know what all that ‘ brown study ’ was about.” 

Daisy’s lids drooped. There was a little tremulous- 
ness about her mouth. Dake watched her as one watches 
the thing which is tenderest and dearest in the world. 
She sat before him in her dress of a warm claret tint, the 
small fingers unconsciously twisting themselves together. 
It was one of her habits, which he knew so well. He 
never imagined that his own dark color and manly 
strength made an effective contrast with the white soft- 
ness and the early bloom. People were often puzzled 
about the relationship between the pair. Dake had too 
youthful an aspect to be the father of that fair child ; 
he might be an older brother, only there was not the 
faintest family likeness between the two. 

Daisy looked up suddenly. “ It was such a little thing ! ” 
she faltered. “ Just something that happened to-day.” 

“ Daisy, has anybody been saying — doing — anything 
to trouble you ? ” 

The child started and stared in his face. His tone 
had been almost fierce. 

“ Nobody has. It was all my fault, my foolishness.” 
Her tone and manner were those of a little woman. 

Dake leaned over and took the soft hand in his big 
one. “ Tell me, Daisy,” he said. 

“ It happened to-day at school. One of the girls — 


72 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Bessie Leigh — she’s ever so nice — had a birthday. Our 
teacher, Miss Sewall, gave her a present, in the prettiest 
little white satin box you ever saw. The present was a 
pair of silver bracelets. They were just lovely ! Bessie 
showed them to me after school and Miss Sewall looked 
on and smiled. At last she called me to her and said : 
‘Now, Daisy dear, you shall have a present, too, on your 
next birthday. When will that be ? ’ 

“ I didn’t know, you see ; I had never thought of it be- 
' fore. At last I stammered out, ‘Nobody ever told me!’ 

“ ‘ Don’t know your birthday, Daisy ! ’ Miss Sewall 
said. And then she stared at me, and Bessie heard, — 
she was standing by, — and then she looked from one to 
the other, and at last I thought she looked sorrowful 
at me. 

“Pretty soon Miss Sewall called me to her, and she 
kissed me and said : ‘Never mind, Daisy ! Little girls 
can have presents just the same, you know, if they don’t 
have birthdays.’ 

“ But all the way home I kept thinking about it, Dakie, 
and it seemed such a sad thing not to have a birthday 
and keep it like other little girls. I shall never know 
— never — ” a great sob choked her. 

Dake had never seen her so grieved before. He lifted 
her from the chair and drew her close to him. 

“You shall have a birthday too, Daisy ! We will get 
one up for you and make a huge frolic of it. Won’t that 
be — jolly ? ” 

He drew out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes. 

In a few moments Daisy stopped crying. Perhaps 
something in Dake’s look or voice made her do this. 

“Yes; it will be very jolly,” she said, nestling up to 
him and her own smile came out on her lips and in her 


WHETHER DAISY ROSS FORGOT 


73 


eyes. “When you think of all the things I’ve got,” 
continued the soft, eager voice, “ it’s very wicked to mind 
so much about birthdays. There is this home — yours 
and mine together — and then comes Red Knolls next 
and afterward Amoury Roost and Cherry Farms — 
the loveliest places in the world and the loveliest people 
in them ! They have all said to me, ‘ This is your home, 
Daisy, — you must remember that, — all the same as 
though you were living here.’,” 

“ Of course they have, and meant it too, ” responded 
Dake fervently. “ They would carry you off quickly, too, 
- — I am sure enough of that — only they don’t want to 
take my little girl away from me ! ” 

“And she doesn’t want to go!” Here Daisy threw 
her arms about his neck and gave him a long hug. 

That evening, after Daisy had gone to bed, Mrs. Bray 
came into the room for a talk with Dake Cramley — 
one of the old habits which had survived the migration 
from the North End. You would hardly have recognized 
her. The old, hunted look in her eyes had vanished. 
Her change of abode, her easier solution of the problem 
of ways and means, her smartened attire, were all factors 
in her improved appearance. The evening cap and gown 
in which she now presided at the head of her table were 
fresh and becoming. 

Mrs. Jemima Bray still had her foibles, her prejudices, 
her inconsistencies ; but beneath them, and behind her 
greatly outraged vernacular, throbbed warm and true her 
woman’s heart. 

Dake Cramley was sure of an interested and sympa- 
thetic listener when he confided to his landlady the inci- 
dent which had taken place at school that morning. 

The scene in the North End alley, and the miserable 


74 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

year which preceded that, had — her friends tried to 
persuade themselves — faded from the child’s memory. 
They had done all in their power to bring about a con- 
summation so devoutly to be wished for. The first year 
after she came to them, it was evident the old memories 
were not always laid. Daisy would wake with cries 
and sobs of terror from her sleep, and it required all 
their efforts to soothe her; but, as time went on, these 
scenes became less frequent, and, at length, ceased alto- 
' gether. 

Daisy herself asked no questions about her infancy — 
had not, indeed, for years ; she seemed satisfied with her 
friends’ version of the past. Her father and mother, 
they told her, had died when she was a baby. The 
nurse, with whom she had been left in charge, also died 
suddenly, leaving no traces as to where she was taking 
her; or of many things which must have happened be- 
fore she was brought to Mrs. Bray’s. 

“ And a blessed hour it was, my darlin’,” continued 
the woman, touching lightly as possible on these details, 
while the child sat listening, silent, but with eyes riveted 
on her face, “ when you came under this roof ! I have 
told you — haven’t I ? — how Dick Crainley happened to 
come across you when you were out alone one day, and 
brought you here. Such a mite as you were at that time 
wouldn’t be likely to remember things which happened 
ages and ages ago ; and it’s no use, besides bein’ a sin, to 
go back and try to bring up harrowin’ memories, instead 
of bein’ happy in the present, and lettin’ the past take 
care of itself, as Holy Scriptur’ teaches ; though I ain’t 
got chapter and verse at my tongue’s end this minute. 
Now, my dear, go and put on your new hat and we’ll have 
a walk in the Public Garden, and see the red and yellow 


WHETHER DAISY ROSS FORGOT 


75 


tulips all a wonder o’ blossomin’ ! You can tell Dakie 
all about ’em to-night when you and he have a basket o’ 
ripe strawberries all by yourselves. I was bound you 
should have ’em when I found ’em in the market this 
mornin’.” 

Mrs. Bray may have had a dim consciousness that she 
was paraphrasing the Bible text, but she felt the circum- 
stances justified a very liberal interpretation. 

One spectre had, at times, haunted Daisy’s two friends. 
Whenever it appeared before Mrs. Bray, she broke down 
in hysteric sobs and tremors, while Dake Cramley, in a 
less demonstrative fashion, grew white about the lips, 
and felt his strong young heart leap in blind alarm as a 
certain possibility suggested itself. 

They were both aware that a considerable section of 
the North End must have been aroused by the way in 
which the child had been rescued from her tormentor. 
Those who had witnessed the dramatic scene — espe- 
cially in its closing phases — formed a large crowd. These 
would be certain to relate the story to their friends. It 
would not be likely to lose anything in the telling. 

Some villain — needy and desperate — among the listen- 
ing groups might see his chance here : he might brood over 
the dark plot until it took form in action. “ If he could 
learn,” he might reason, “ where the child was staying, 
he might keep watch, come across her in some unguarded 
moment, lure her to him, or seize and carry her off by 
main force, keep her in hiding for a while, manage in 
some secret way to communicate with her friends, who 
would be willing to come down with a round sum if she 
were restored to them ! ” 

This remote possibility took strong hold of Mrs. Bray’s 
imagination. She recalled the disappearance of little 


76 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


Charlie Ross with all the attendant circumstances — 
that child-tragedy that is sure to live on, with all its in- 
evitable aggregations, during the next century. The 
identity of names had an effect on Mrs. Bray : she suc- 
ceeded in infecting Dake Cramley’s strong nerves, more 
or less, with her fears. A strict watch was kept over 
Daisy’s movements. Mrs. Bray experienced a sickening 
alarm if the child could not be accounted for at any 
moment. The misfortunes of her own life had inclined 
her to forebodings. Dake himself used to feel a happy 
sense of reassurance when the little golden-ringed head 
sprang forward, and the joyous cry of welcome greeted 
his return at night. 

As time went on, these fears were gradually allayed. 
Daisy herself lived her happy life in absolute uncon- 
sciousness of them. Dake’s friend, the policeman, whose 
beat included the North End alley, treated all such 
fears as absolutely groundless, and his conviction went 
far to reassure the others. 

Even before the removal from the North End, Dorothy 
Draycott’s representations had won Mrs. Bray’s consent 
to Daisy’s attending a kindergarten some distance from 
her home. The alarm about a possible kidnapping had 
not been shared at Red Knolls, though when Dake Cram- 
ley once broached the subject to him, Tom Draycott was 
wise enough not to treat it with ridicule. In deference, 
however, to her friends’ feelings, it was arranged that a 
school-companion should call for Daisy and accompany 
her home. With the removal to the South End, the 
spectre disappeared. 

During their talk that evening, Dake Cramley asked 
a question which rather startled Mrs. Bray. 

“ Have you ever thought Daisy might remember more 


WHETHER DAISY ROSS FORGOT 


77 


of her past, and of how she came to ns, than we have 
imagined ? ” 

“Land sakes ! N o, Mr. Dake. What can have put that 
idea into your head ? She was such a child — a baby — 
you might say — at the time ! Besides, she never asks a 
question.” ( 

“ That is precisely the thing which has sometimes set 
me wondering.” Dake absently bent a slender ivory 
paper-cutter which he had taken up from the table, until 
it seemed on the point of snapping. “ Daisy has a re- 
markable memory; she is such a bright creature too! 
It would seem natural that she should sometimes be 
curious about things which happened before she came to 
us. It is her silence that puzzles me.” 

“ That is just because she don’t remember,” answered 
Mrs. Bray decidedly. “ She is runnin’ over with life and 
happiness, and ain’t got no time to go huntin’ in the past. 
I know Daisy like a book. You may trust me. That 
child’s forgot all about things, Mr. Dake.” 

“I devoutly hope you are right, Mrs. Bray. Indeed, I 
suppose you must be.” 


78 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


VII 

WITH TOM DRAYCOTT AND DAKE CRAMLEY 

\ 

Dake Cramley stood in the doorway. 

Tom Draycott turned suddenly and saw the figure. 
Dake had been silently and rather humorously regarding 
his friend’s shoulders for a minute or two. 

Tom sprang to his feet; he had been sitting by the 
table absorbed in a book. There could be no question of 
the pleased surprise in his face, of the heartiness of his 
welcome. “ Old fellow, I am glad to see you.” 

“ It goes without question that I am glad to be here.” 
Dake glanced around the room, and then at his friend, 
with something in his eyes which would have had a 
revealing significance to a stranger. 

“ I must take your word for that then — not your deeds. 
It is more than three weeks since you last showed your 
face in this room.” 

It was a winter evening early in December. The winds 
had been bickering in the shrubberies outside ever since 
the sun had gone to its early setting. Inside Tom Dray- 
cott’s “ den,” as he called it, the warmth and light were 
doubly cheerful against the gloom and chill outdoors. A 
glance or two about the large room would have given you 
a key to its occupant’s character and tastes. The wide, 
low bookcases enclosed shelves crowded with the classics 


WITH TOM DRAYCOTT AND DAKE CRAMLEY 79 

and modern literature. The room-corners held weapons, 
foils, masks — all reminiscent of undergraduate days and 
sports. There was some handsome china on the mantel- 
piece. Though the room at once indicated a masculine 
ownership, there were plenty of feminine touches every- 
where, — in i blending of colors, and looping of window- 
draperies, and in all sorts of pretty, useful, or decorative 
things. 

The young men, standing together, threw each other 
into fine relief. Tom Draycott was some inches the 
taller, and his blond head, set on his shapely shoulders, 
showed against Dake’s dark coloring and squarer build. 
The latter’s black hair and mustache matched the bright, 
alert eyes. There was that touch of picturesqueness 
about the large features and strong-built figure which, 
long ago, had struck Dorothy Draycott’s artistic sense. 
When it came to a matter of broadcloth, boots, linen, 
there seemed now hardly a pin’s choice between the two. 
Both wore dark, well-fitting winter suits, but neither had 
the smallest suggestion of a fop. Of course young Dray- 
cott showed in subtle ways of speech and bearing, all 
which had gone to his inheritance and training. Dake 
Cramley was of another race and type, but, standing 
there by the friend whom he loved best on earth, he had 
no reason to be ashamed that night of all which, in these 
six years, he had made of himself. 

Of course he had not reached this point without a long, 
dogged struggle of will and purpose. The shy, awkward 
youth had gained now a certain poise and directness of 
look and bearing which was the unconscious expression of 
reserve force. Dake Cramley had made, long before this, 
a secure berth for himself, in the house of Meredith, Max, 
and Company ; he had risen by slow gradations, always 


80 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


proving himself equal to one post before he was advanced 
to another. His intimacy with Tom Draycott had the 
effect of stimulating all his mental energies. He was still 
young enough to feel all the fresh delight there is in 
study, the kindling of intellectual faculties, the hunger for 
knowledge when once he had fairly entered the new fields. 
His fine health served him splendidly here ; he went to 
evening schools ; he studied far into the night ; he joined 
some private classes ; his young mental appetite was con- 
' stantly whetted by what it fed on. Then his relations 
with the family at Ked Knolls were of infinite value to 
him. You who know what his past had been can best 
conceive what a penetrating influence, elevating, restrain- 
ing, refining, the Draycott atmosphere and example must 
have been to him at this period. 

Bake Cramley was not a genius ; he never aspired to 
one of the professions ; his bent was practical, with an 
aptitude for mathematics and the natural sciences. 

The talk this evening continued briskly between the 
two and in a jesting vein, after they had seated them- 
selves by the table. Dake was almost as familiar with 
this room as he was with his own by the tiny South End 
park. On the table stood a large, antique, tureen-shaped 
dish of Delft porcelain. It was heaped with big russet 
and red-brown pears. Tom busied himself a few mo- 
ments in conveying a generous supply to a couple of 
fruit plates, and disposing the knives on each, saying 
meanwhile: “ We will comfort our souls — or our palates, 
while we talk — with these pears. They have the finest 
flavor of anything of their kind I have come across this 
autumn. Set to work, Dake!” and he pushed a plate 
toward his friend and drew another to himself. 

“ Thank you, Draycott. I shall be ready to do justice 


WITH TOM DRAYCOTT AND DAKE CRAMLEY 81 


to the pears a little later. But I have something to tell 
you first.” 

Tom pushed his plate back a little, and gazed at his 
companion. “ Something has been happening to you, 
Dake ! ” he said, after a few moments’ silence. 

“ Yes ; there has.” 

“ And it’s good news ? ” 

“ I think you will call it so ! ” with a little, shrewd 
smile about the corners of his mouth. Then he sprang 
up, saluted Tom with an air of profound reverence, and 
announced that he had just been promoted to a new post in 
the house of Meredith, Max, and Company — one which in- 
cluded vastly increased responsibilities and a large ad- 
vance of salary. The man who had occupied this post 
for years had just vacated it for a still higher one. 

It was time now for Tom to get on his feet. “ Let us 
have a grip of fists on that, Dake ! ” he said. “ This is su- 
perlatively good news ! I congratulate you from my soul.” 

“ I was sure you would like it ! ” Dake replied in his 
grave, pleased way, while his eyes spoke where his lips 
failed. “ I had to come over and tell you first of all the 
world.” 

“ That was, of course, the thing to do. I couldn’t be 
more pleased if some rich old corporation had sent me a 
retaining fee of — say — five thousand dollars ! ” 

“ It was a stunning surprise to me,” pursued Dake. 
“ I was just the most pleased fellow in all Boston. But, 
after all, the first thing I thought of was of you, old fel- 
low, and of how you would take it.” 

Dake had a little struggle with the words ; he did not 
often speak like this. But to-night the deep headsprings 
of memory and gratitude had been stirred and they over- 
flowed into his rather slow speech. 

G 


82 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“Well, you have scored high this time, Dake! But I 
always felt it was in you ! ” 

“If you did, you discovered me first. I owe every- 
thing to you, Draycott ! ” 

“ That is your confounded modesty ! You have always 
overrated tremendously my share in — events.” 

Dake shook his head; his dark young face showed 
some very decided lines. When next he spoke, there 
was a ring of deep feeling in his voice — one which over- 
' came all the usual reluctances of his speech. “It was I 
had to live it ! I know what it means when a fellow 
sets about making himself over. Let him who has tried 
it say whether it is a light matter ! It seems at times 
such hopeless, uphill work — his heart and his will fail 
him, and the devil is sure to come around with his sneer : 
‘ What a fool you are ! The game isn’t worth the candle, 
anyhow. Cut this whole sanctimonious masquerade, and 
turn in and live out your own life like a man instead of 
a muff ! ’ And if the struggle was so hard on me, who 
had sound muscles and healthy blood in my veins to 
start with, what must it be for the fellows who have 
demoralized their bodies and souls with all sorts of dis- 
sipation ! From my soul, I pity them ! But when the 
pinch came, there was always you, Draycott, a great 
solid fact in my way. Hang it ! There was no getting 
round you ! I used to say, ‘ He’s the one fellow in the 
world who really cares for you, Dake Cramley. He’d 
be awfully cut up if you should fail. If you don’t care a 
copper what becomes of yourself, show you have manli- 
ness enough not to knock under for the sake of your only 
friend ! ’ So I held to the ship, and she brought me into 
port at last. But it was you, Tom Draycott, who saved 
me — you and Daisy ! ” 


WITH TOM DRAYCOTT AND DAKE CRAMLEY 83 


“ Well, I’m ready and proud to share all ray honors with 
her. But I do not budge an inch from my conviction that 
it was in you, Dake. Understand that, sir ! Won’t she 
be mightily pleased when she gets this news, though ? ” 

Dake’s laugh relieved the tension of his feelings. “ But 
she will say in her earnest, little woman’s way, 1 It is no 
more than I expected, Dake ! ’ She would say that, and 
mean it too, if I should tell her to-morrow that I had 
been nominated for next President of the United States.” 

Tom laughed heartily, and then added : “ The people 
down-stairs will be almost as glad as I am to hear this, 
Dake. As soon as the company are gone, we will go 
down and announce it.” 

Dake’s dark cheek flushed. “ I would rather leave all 
that to you, Draycott. It would be rather embarrassing 
for me.” 

“ There it goes again ! ” Tom’s tone was half-provoked. 
“ It is no use trying to make the slightest lion of you. 
Why can’t you wear your honors a little more openly ? ” 

Despite this rallying, Tom was deeply touched by the 
share which Dake attributed to him in his present fort- 
unes. It was human that self-love should have some 
part in this gratification ; but words had been spoken 
that night which thrilled the nobler chords of Tom 
Draycott’s nature, and his strongest feeling was an inex- 
pressible pride and delight in his old protege’s success. 

At last they turned to the fruit, and while they were 
regaling themselves on this, Dake went into the details 
of his interview with the head of the great paper manu- 
facturing house. It appeared that Meredith, after ap- 
pointing his new superintendent, had consulted him 
regarding the proper kind of assistant, and the man had 
at once suggested Dake Cramley. 


84 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“ I can’t be in two places at once,” he averred, “ and I 
want somebody at the mills who will know how to man- 
age the men, and whom I can trust as though I were on 
hand myself. That young Cramley fills the bill ; he is 
shrewd, steady, and honest to the core. If he is young, 
he is the man for the post.” 

“ I had been thinking of him myself in that connec- 
tion,” rejoined Eichard Meredith, who had grown a little 
bald and a good deal stouter since his first interview with 
Dake Cramley in that very office. 

He sent for his young employee, and during the next 
hour the matter was brought to a consummation. 

“ How will the new position suit you ? ” interrogated 
Tom, while the pair of busy fruit-knives were achieving 
spirals of rind. 

“ Admirably,” Dake rejoined with enthusiasm. “I 
shall like it infinitely better than a clerk’s desk. It will 
take me up country often to the Branch Eoad Mills, and 
I shall have a good deal of outdoor work, which I have 
always hankered for. When a telegram comes, I must be 
ready to start off in a moment, and often, no doubt, be 
gone for days. The only drawback to all this is Daisy. 
My coming home at night is as sure a thing with her as 
the sunset.” 

“ When you are away, you must send her out to Eed 
Knolls. If we don’t see your faces here, at least once a 
week, we feel aggrieved. Mrs. Bray’s is not your only 
home.” 

“ You certainly never allow us to suppose that.” Then 
Dake burst into a laugh. “ How delighted the good soul 
will be to hear of my promotion, and how she will be con- 
stantly bringing it up when she sits at the head of the 
table, with her big family ! ” 


WITH TOM DRAYCOTT AND DAKE CRAMLEY 85 


Meanwhile Tom Draycott was carefully choosing a 
half dozen of the finest pears, which he bestowed in a 
canoe-shaped basket of braided grasses — a pretty, gay- 
colored thing, which had caught his fancy at an Indian 
encampment among the mountains. On the mantel was 
a huge Japan bowl filled with great chrysanthemums in 
all rich shades of gold, maroon, and crimson. Tom laid 
a few of the gorgeous blooms among the pears ; he envel- 
oped the whole in soft white paper-wrappings. Dake 
watched the process with pleased, comprehending eyes. 

“ Give that to Daisy,” said Tom, when he had finished, 
handing the parcel to Dake. “ Tell her there are plenty 
more awaiting her where these came from.” 

The two went out together into the night. Wild-look- 
ing clouds, which one might easily fancy vast Titans with 
gray, streaming beards, were shouldering themselves about 
the sky. Between them a few stars shone, sweet and shy 
as faces of stars always shine between hurrying clouds. 
The pair moved along with big, swinging strides. They 
were gay as boys to-night. Dake’s good fortune seemed 
like a part of his own to Tom Draycott. It was much 
like one of their tramps of six years ago, and which in dif- 
ferent ways would leave their marks on two human lives. 
The young men had not, of course, kept up their walks 
with their old frequency, but they managed to get off 
occasionally for a half day’s tramp — miles and miles — 
among the Boston suburbs. 

To-night they walked over to Harvard Square, where 
Dake boarded an electric; Tom Draycott returned to 
Bed Knolls, whistling old college tunes, and that splen- 
did mastiff Hidalgo — not grown perceptibly older — 
moved stately by his side. 


86 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


VIII 

HOW ONE FATHER TALKED TO HIS DAUGHTER ABOUT 
MARRIAGE 

“ 0 papa, if people were not so — so disappointing ! ” 

Dorothy Draycott sat alone with her father in the 
library. Outdoors occasional flurries of snow drove 
white and ghost-like before the gale. The air was full 
of wild, storming cries. 

There was everything, in wan, starless sky and frost- 
harried earth, to keep people indoors. The year had 
reached December at last, and the chill of death was 
at its heart and it seemed as though no summer could 
ever be again. 

The hearth-fire was awake to-night — the sparks spin- 
ning and humming up the wide-mouthed chimney as they 
had done on that other night when Dorothy Draycott sat 
in this room and sketched her brother’s face, — all the 
lines slightly exaggerated, — a little mischievous smile 
lurking about the corners of her mouth. 

The library, with its warmth and light, its home- 
atmosphere, its soft blending and contrasting of color- 
tones, was a decidedly attractive place against all the 
December chill and dreariness. Dorothy had been sit- 
ting quiet as a mouse, looking at the red, swarming 
sparks, but hardly seeing them ; her hands clasped lightly 
in her lap ; her eyelids drooped ; she herself lost for the 


HOW HER FATHER TALKED ABOUT MARRIAGE 87 


last half hour in a reverie which had given a touch of 
pensiveness to her young face, and which had at last 
articulated itself in a sudden, explosive fashion and in a 
half-disgusted, half-resentful tone. 

Her father, on the opposite side of the table, had been 
buried in his letters for the same space of time. The 
speech or the tone must have struck him, for he threw 
one of his quiet, penetrating glances at his daughter; 
then he laid the last of his letters on a little pile which 
had aggregated at his right, wheeled his arm-chair to the 
fire and closer to her. 

“ General remarks of that sort may mean anything or 
nothing/’ he said, with the little, dry, humorous note she 
knew so well. “Won’t you please be a little more 
explicit ? ” 

Dorothy hesitated a moment, putting her palms to- 
gether reflectively. It was an old habit of her child- 
hood. “I don’t believe I have the courage to begin, 
papa. It will seem so ineffably — silly.” 

“And in that way cure itself. But this is beating 
about the bush. Who and what are the people that dis- 
appoint you, Dorothy ? ” 

“Sometimes I think it is almost everybody, papa! 
Now don’t lift your eyebrows in that way — please! I 
do try to see the best side of people — to shut my eyes 
to the other, but it will crop out. It was so different 
once. I used to believe everybody — almost — was 
noble, fine, lovely; and now I see all sorts of weak- 
nesses, pettinesses, jealousies, where I could not pos- 
sibly have believed they existed. They hurt me ! But 
what is one to do ? I wish I could go back into the old, 
all-trusting, all-believing phase. But there is no use; 
that has gone forever.” 


88 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“ Yes,” said her father, with a certain quiet decision in 
his tones. “ You can no more go back to it, my daughter, 
than you can go back to your dolls and playhouses.” 

He had, by this time, the key to Dorothy’s mood ; he 
knew this was a stage of experience through which her 
youth must pass, — a stage of deepening insight, per- 
plexity, disillusion, which, to her temperament, would 
be peculiarly trying. 

“ But what shall I do, papa ? ” The tone was half- 
petulant, half-appealing. “ I am so surprised, annoyed, 
shocked, that I sometimes fear it will all end by my 
settling down into a hard, cynical old thing.” 

His eyes twinkled on her with tender amusement. 
“ There is always that danger ahead when one gets to 
this point. You see how many people do drift into a 
critical, supercilious, and disgusted habit with their fel- 
lows, and what an unfruitful life and what an unhappy 
character are the logical results ; for your experience is 
a universal one, Dorothy.” 

“ And did you go through with it — you and mamma ? ” 
she asked, with a kind of surprised curiosity in her tones, 
which made him smile at the tall girl sitting opposite 
him. He noticed that she wore a new dress that night, 
that it was of a very dark wine-colored tint, the heavy 
folds clinging close to her young figure. A few deep- 
gold chrysanthemums glowed against the rich shade of 
her gown. 

Her father laughed. “Then you take it for granted 
that your mother and I were exceptions to the universal 
evolutionary processes, do you ? ” 

“ Yes, I suppose just that ! But I wish you had told 
me instead of leaving me to find out all this for myself.” 

“ What good would the telling you have done ? This 


HOW HER FATHER TALKED ABOUT MARRIAGE 89 

is one of the many experiences which we must live to 
understand.” 

“ 0 papa, you are so wise ! ” 

“ Do you suppose that I have lived twenty-eight years 
longer than you and learned nothing ? ” 

“At least you and mamma have come out of your 
experiences neither hard, critical, nor pessimistic.” 

“ So will you, Dorothy, I confidently believe, and with 
a faith in human nature and in its possibilities, which 
nothing can shake. Those whose insight has penetrated 
deepest, those who have interpreted life most truly, — 
the world’s greatest poets and seers, — have not been 
the doubters and scoffers. Your young people are, just 
now, no doubt, very crude, limited creatures ; but have 
patience with them and yourself. Nature does not 
ripen her harvest in a day, whether the soil she is at 
work in be brown loam or human souls.” 

“ She will have a long task with some of us,” said 
Dorothy, with a laugh that was partly gay and partly 
something else. “ I suppose we young people are only 
just out of the chimpanzee stage. That is what the 
young men seem to me: I mean some of them — not all, 
of course,” correcting herself as she caught the signifi- 
cant uplift of her father’s brows. “ But a great many 
of them make such silly jokes and horrid puns, and affect 
epigrams and superior airs and general disgust with the 
world. Others are fops or muffs, and conceited — that is 
no word for it ! I could endure all this if it were not 
for their absurd flatteries and — other nonsense.” The 
last word was a transparent euphemism. 

Her father broke into a laugh which had the fresh 
heartiness of a boy’s. “ How little the poor fellows sus- 
pect they are being slaughtered in this fashion! The 


90 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


sharp tongues of these smiling young girls when they 
get started! Don’t you suppose your father, my dear, 
was once just that conceited, rudimentary creature you 
have been describing ? ” 

Dorothy’s sweet mouth could take a very decided line. 
“ Nothing could make me ever believe that, papa ! ” 

“ And of course the mothers and sisters regard these sons 
and brothers in much more flattering lights than you do ! ” 

“ It is to be devoutly hoped so ! But the sisters — so 
many of them — disappoint me more than the brothers. 
They are so vain; so eager to outdo each other; so 
full of silly prattle and airs and affectations and little 
jealousies. I wish I did not see these things ; I try not 
to. It seems as though a veil had fallen suddenly from 
my eyes ! ” she concluded in a half-plaintive, half-apolo- 
getic tone. 

“ But these chattering, frivolous girls may only need 
life’s experiences to unfold into devoted wives and 
mothers ; these conceited, foppish young fellows may — 
a couple of decades hence — be doing their part manfully 
in the world ! ” 

Dorothy did not break the pause that followed; she 
sat very still, watching the tongues of flame, as they 
darted in and out, greedily lapping the birch locks. 

When her father resumed again, it was in a graver tone. 
“ But nothing can alter this fact that humanity is the 
finest, noblest, most precious thing in the world ! Our 
relations with men and women of all sorts and conditions 
are still the supreme thing in our lives. We cannot 
blink that. We know how people of refined tastes and 
delicate susceptibilities often shrink from contacts with, 
and responsibilities to, their fellow-beings. It is a great 
temptation to shut one’s self out from the toiling, moil- 


HOW HER FATHER TALKED ABOUT MARRIAGE 91 


ing, unlovely world, to cultivate one’s aesthetic, artistic, 
literary — what you will — sympathies — live pampered, 
exclusive, self-indulgent lives. Some people who do this 
must recur to you, Dorothy. They have developed their 
tastes at the expense of their hearts.” 

“ Yes ; I know,” she said softly. 

Again there was a pause. The clock ticked louder 
on the mantel; the sparks hummed joyous in the chim- 
ney. 

“ Sometimes, I think,” resumed Donald Dray cott, speak- 
ing half to himself and leaning his head against the 
back of his chair, “ I have been more or less at fault in 
the bringing up of my boy and girl. What do they know 

— at least from experience — of the rough ways of life 

— of poverty, temptation, trials ? Yet it is in these very 
things that the noblest souls have been tempered. My 
heart occasionally misgives me lest you and Tom have 
had too much ‘ cake and codgering.’ But in some shape 
the great tests must be awaiting you as they wait for all. 
How are you. going to meet them, my daughter, sheltered 
and guarded as you have been from all the rough ways 
and the bitter weather ? And how was I to send you out 
in them for a process of toughening ? ” 

“ Driving us out as the birds do the young ones from 
the mother-nest ! ” said Dorothy, with a swift challenging 
poise of her head. “You know you never could have 
done that, papa ! However, you will see ! Tom and I 
are not going to discredit your 1 cake and codgering ! ’ ” 

Perhaps it was the tone — full of gay young assertion 

— rather than the words which her father answered. 

“ My dear, has it never struck you that things cannot 
always go on with you as they are going now ? We are 
in a world of change. Events come suddenly sometimes, 


92 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


and bring new circumstances and relations — especially 
at your time of life.” 

This time Dorothy’s face flushed; her head bridled. 
“ Papa, when you talk about circumstances and relations, 
do you really mean — bring it down to a fine point — get- 
ting married ? ” She accented the last words with in- 
finite disdain. 

“ Do you wish me to understand that is a foregone im- 
possibility with you ? ” 

' “ It jcertainly is something I never reckon with in my 

future. As for Tom — you know what an insusceptible 
creature he is ! It is surprising, when one thinks what 
long lovers you and mamma have been, that your chil- 
dren are so devoid of sentiment ! ” 

“ Twenty-five and twenty-three ! ” rejoined Donald 
Draycott, and he whistled a note or two. 

“Well, papa, you may make fun of us; but you will 
see ! We shall remain at Bed Knolls all our lives and 
finally die of old age, I suppose. Getting married, 
indeed ! ” 

" If your mother had regarded it with the feeling your 
tone implies, I cannot conceive my life would have been, 
for more than a quarter of a century, the blessed thing I 
have found it. But that is not now to the point. You 
have quite as many admirers as is good for a girl. 
Hasn’t one of them succeeded — ” 

Dorothy broke in with her prompt, passionate nega- 
tive. “ No, papa, not one ! I enjoy gentlemen’s society; 
I like them as friends, companions, guests ; I think life 
would be a horribly dull affair without them. They give 
it so much interest, sparkle, fun ; I like to have sensible 
talks, too, with some of the best of them, on all sorts of 
subjects — books, music, pictures, and great events which 


HOW HER FATHER TALKED ABOUT MARRIAGE 93 


are going on in tlie world. Despite all my strictures, — 
a girl, you know, must use adjectives, — I have a thorough 
respect and liking for some of these young fellows. But 
when it comes to anything more than that — papa, I be- 
lieve you have spoiled me for other men ! ” 

“ And so you tickle me with a compliment, and then 
coolly throw all further responsibilities on my shoulders ! 
Oh, the depth of young feminine guile ! ” 

“ Guile! I never was more sincere in my life ! Papa,” 
with a sudden transition from a gay to a grave tone, 
“you know all my gentleman friends. They include 
a pretty wide circle. Who — honor bright — is your 
favorite among them ? ” 

“ Challenged in this peremptory fashion, I am not pre- 
pared to say that I have any. Some of these young men 
have, however, struck me as fine, manly fellows; but I 
confess I have never hankered for one of the crowd as a 
son-in-law ! ” 

“ There ! ” The monosyllable was a crescendo of tri- 
umph. “I was sure you would feel about them as 
I do.” 

“ But I am not sure that the feeling, or the want of 
it, does me any credit — that it has not its root in my 
selfishness.” 

“ Papa ! ” 

“Yes; I know precisely what I am saying! The 
happiness of my child should be my first thought.” 

“ And that is,” she explained glibly, “ by things stay- 
ing in statu quo. No change could be a betterment.” 

“ There is the rub ! Things won’t stay in statu quo ! 
Time and inexorable laws are against them. Do you 
suppose, Dorothy, that Red Knolls can go on forever in 
the way you have always known it ? If that were the 


94 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


case, I would keep you always as you are, sitting before 
me to-night. I never want my child to go away from 
me. If it should come to that, it would cost me a great, 
struggle to give her up to the best man in the world.” 

“ If he were to present himself, I should not want 
him,” with a little repellent gesture. “ Why should you 
talk of giving me up, papa ? Do you surmise a possible 
spinster, and do I seem a doleful spectre in that light ? ” 

Her father laughed at the question, gazing at the 
'blooming creature before him: but in an instant she 
went on : “ Think of mamma’s friends ! The women 
among them who are not married are certainly — as a 
rule — old enough to be.” 

“ Mamma’s friends — I mean the unmarried ones — are, 
some of them, among the sweetest and noblest women 
I have ever known.” 

“ Well, then?” 

“ But a man must speak here from his own experience 
and observation. Despite all the noble men and women 
who have lived single lives, I believe that for you the 
highest, deepest blessedness would lie in a true marriage 
— one where some man would be happier, larger, nobler, 
because you were his wife — where you too, my child,, 
would be a happier, nobler woman because he was your 
husband.” 

Dorothy flushed and laughed a little nervous laugh. 
Then she said in her spirited, half-defiant way, which, 
was also a very bewitching one : “ Well, I am in no 
haste certainly, to enter on any matrimonial mission, or to. 
be the subject of it. I have one young man on my hands 
who requires all my endeavors now, as he insists that I 
do his ! ” 

“ Have you ever thought, my dear, that it was within 


HOW HER FATHER TALKED ABOUT MARRIAGE 95 


human possibility that Tom might surprise you some 
time ? ” 

“ By bringing me a sister-in-law ! ” Dorothy’s tone and 
glance were almost aghast. “ 0 papa, I am not ready for 
her ! ” 

“ He would probably resent as strongly the prospect of 
a brother-in-law ; but neither seems likely, at this junc- 
ture, to put the other to such a' test. I seem to be harp- 
ing on the fact that this home-life of ours cannot go on 
forever. But you yourself will change — more or less ; so 
will Tom. Youth shapes its own future, builds its own 
fair, impossible world in the realms of its imagination. 
No human feet have ever mounted the shining terraces 
which lead to the beautiful air-castles. Yet real life, 
with all its sober, disenchanting aspects, is something 
better and nobler than our fairest visions. How old are 
you, — just, — Dorothy ? ” 

“ Twenty-three and a half. It seems only yesterday 
when that would have struck me as an awful weight of 
years ! ” 

“And to me it seems, and is, the heyday of youth. 
But it is also true that you have crossed the line of the 
first third of your life ! ” 

“ What do you mean, papa ? ” 

“ Threescore and ten. You know how the psalm 
goes.” 

Her eyes flashed intelligent response. “ Oh, yes! A 
third is a large part. You have made me feel very old, 
papa.” 

“That was not my intention. You are very young, 
my dear. All that has gone before has been a getting 
ready. I hope, should you live to add the other thirds 
to the first one, you will have ripened into such con- 


96 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


sciousness of the infinite meanings and glory of life — 
will have such a heart of youth in you — that you will 
feel younger than you do now, sitting before me in your 
fresh girlhood.” 

“0 papa, what a beautiful wish! I shall carry it 
with me if I should live to be seventy.” She sprang up, 
crossed the rug, and kissed him. The two heads — each 
beautiful in its way — made a fine grouping. 

Afterward he held her a few moments sitting on the 
'arm of his chair. “Papa,” she said, very seriously now, 
“your daughter and mamma’s ought to be something a 
great deal more and better than she is ! I feel that 
every day ; I sometimes envy Tom the look I see in Dake 
Cramley’s eyes. I wish somebody would look at me in 
that way ! I wonder if anybody in the world is better 
because I am in it.” 

“ Tom is a fine, manly fellow ! ” said his father with a 
touch of paternal pride. “ One has not solved all the prob- 
lems at twenty-five. But I think he is not going to disap- 
point me. As for Dake Cramley, I shall be grateful to 
the boy always for what he has done for your brother.” 

“Dake, of course, will never regard it in that light. 
But — yes — ” said Dorothy reflectively, if a little dis- 
connectedly, “ I see you are right, papa.” 

“ Take the lesson to heart, then, little girl ! Our un- 
conscious influence may radiate far — may reach human 
souls in ways we little suspect. We never know where 
— how — we may be touching others. Somebody in this 
world — man or woman — may, this very hour, be living a 
better, braver life — one touched to finer issues — because, 
all unconsciously, you have reached and influenced it.” 

Dorothy’s eyes shone radiant through their tears. 
“ 0 papa, I should be the most blessed of mortals if I 


HOW HER FATHER TALKED ABOUT MARRIAGE 97 


could know that ! I would go all over the world to find 
such a man or woman ! ” 

“ And the secret of your power may, after all, lie in 
the fact that you do not know — that you cannot find.” 

A little later, when she had returned to her chair, and 
he had laid some fresh wood on the andirons, she broke 
out with a lighter tone: “We have had such a long, seri- 
ous talk to-night ! ” 

“ I think myself it is time for a lighter key.” 

“Then, papa, suppose I should astonish you one of 
these days with a grand, ambitious marriage ? ” 

“ What do you call, then, a grand, ambitious marriage ? ” 
“ Well, for instance, one with a foreign gentleman, high 
descent, ancient title, and all that ! ” 

“You — Dorothy Draycott — with your seven genera- 
tions of American ancestors ! ” answered her father in a 
tone which matched her own. But that changed, in a 
moment, to one of great earnestness. “Heaven forbid 
that you should deny your birthright in that fashion ! 
All that you are now, all that you may ever become — any 
graces of womanhood, any good fortunes which may have 
fallen to your share, my daughter, you owe to the country 
which has bestowed upon you such immeasurable bless- 
ings. Ancient titles, indeed ! ” he continued, in a half- 
ironical, half-indignant tone. “What an absurdity it 
seems — if it were not something worse — to lavish the 
wealth one’s own country, in all her fostering ways and 
by all her larger freedom, has afforded one the means of 
acquiring in buying back the 1 mediaeval bawble 9 our fore- 
fathers had the good sense to abolish almost as soon as 
their feet touched these shores ! But my daughter will 
not be troubled. She has not one of the grand fortunes 
which prove so alluring to these titled foreigners.” 

H 


98 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“ But, papa, surely there must be good men, noble men, 
who marry my countrywomen for themselves — not for 
their fortunes.” 

“ Undoubtedly. But I was speaking of the men who. 
do. True and noble manhood is not, of course, limited 
to any nation, as some of us are, perhaps, inclined to 
imply when we lose our heads a little on stump and plat- 
form. All I desire is, that my daughter shall carry her 
untitled head with more pride than if it wore a coronet to 
*her grave ! ” 

“ Well, she will ! I pledge you my word there. I am 
a loyal American to the marrow, and have no more hank- 
ering for a title than you have for a son-in-law.” 

“ When he comes, then, — ‘ lang and late be the day, my 
leddy,’ — I shall, to that extent, be ready to welcome him ! ” 

The door opened suddenly, and Tom Draycott ushered 
his mother and Mrs. Dayles into the library. 

“ You look as though you two had had an enormously 
good time ! ” exclaimed Tom, glancing from his sister 
to his father. 

“We have,” she answered, springing up and confront- 
ing him with eyes which accented her words. “The 
most delightful two hours in the world ! ” 

“And you, Grace,” asked Donald Draycott, “what 
sort of an evening have you had in the drawing-room ? 
I was relieved to have Tom slip gracefully into my shoes 
and play the host’s part.” 

“ He did himself credit to-night, and managed it very 
adroitly, so that you and Dorothy should not be inter- 
rupted. Our little company were in high spirits. They 
made me laugh with their clever talk and gay repartee. 
How bright the fire is ! How cosey and happy you look 
in here to-night ! ” 


HOW HER FATHER TALKED ABOUT MARRIAGE 99 


Donald Draycott knew his wife. She was not the 
kind of woman who criticises or disparages her guests 
the moment they have left her threshold. 

“ We will have a change of programme. Shall it be a 
game of whist, Grace ? ” 

“Not whist to-night, dear. We will have some poems 
instead.” 

“ Poor Grace ! She has been horribly bored, I see ,” 
mentally commented Donald Draycott. 

He took up Browning’s “ Men and Women” and read 
several of his own favorite poems in a voice which inter- 
preted their deeper meanings. Tom followed, with the 
rich, flute-like music of some of Tennyson’s brief songs, 
and Dorothy recited in her clear contralto a couple of 
Whittier’s ballads, and to those who listened on that 
wild winter night they were like a breath from the heart 
of summer. 

Then they sat, a little silent group, around the fire, 
while red flames swept over the logs and roared up the 
wide-throated chimney. Donald Draycott watched the 
sweet face opposite him, its gaze on the flames, and 
silently thanked God that the woman sitting there was 
his wife. At last, when she lifted her eyes with a great 
shining in their depths, he said to her, “Well, Grace, 
what are you thinking about the fire ? ” 

She smiled. “ A good many things.” 

“ Yes, I saw that. We don’t want to lose one.” 

“ I was trying to make out what the fire was saying, 
and then it came to me all of a sudden — like a flash — 
that I was listening to the Hearth Song — the oldest song 
in the world. It is as ancient as the human race; it 
has come down to us from the world’s morning, from 
the primeval forests, from the earliest homes! Think 


100 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

what tender and hallowed associations cluster around it ! 
It is the one song which has gone all about the earth, 
and with it have gone sparkle and light and warmth and 
cheer. It is the same in all tongues — under all skies. 
We hear at our hearthstone to-night the joyful, soft-hum- 
ming thing to which the earliest mothers listened when 
the eyes of their babies were caught and dazzled by the 
beautiful, flashing, mounting flames. The hearth-fire 
and its song are the symbol and interpreter of the home 
— of all the sweetest, most sacred things in human lives.” 

In the pause which followed Tom spoke first. “ If 
we sit here all night, we shall not say anything so good 
as that. I move we adjourn at once. Whew ! ” as 
the winds roared at the windows. “ Old Boreas is out on 
wild rampage ! We shall go to sleep to his trumpeting.” 


GATHERING OF WINDS; BREAKING OF STORM 101 


IX 

THE GATHERING OF THE WINDS ; THE BREAKING OF THE 
STORM 

The young man straightened himself as one does under 
a sudden blow. There was a dazed look in his eyes. 
An almost deadly pallor supplanted his healthy brown 
color. 

His friend, an elderly man, with a slim, wiry figure, a 
smooth-shaven, intelligent face, and a resolute mouth, 
watched him with shrewd, sympathetic eyes. He knew 
the younger had had a blow — knew that the way in 
which he received it would be a test of character and 
manliness. 

Lawyer John Stacey had been haunted, more or less, 
for days by the spectre of this moment; yet now that it 
had come, he was inwardly cursing himself for being too 
precipitate. “He should have known better — used a 
little circumlocution. It was horribly rough on Philip, 
anyhow.” 

Yet the man who admonished himself in this wise 
knew it was better that the fated words should be spoken 
by his lips than another’s. Indeed, he had several times 
made an attempt to approach the subject, but Philip’s 
absolute unconsciousness had baffled him. It was a 
natural sequence that the truth, when it came at last, 
should take the form of blunt, laconic expression and be 
followed by swift remorse. 


102 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Dramatic as the moment was, — one destined to effect 
an absolute change in all the habits and circumstances of 
the y ounger’s life, — there was nothing in the scene and 
surroundings to suggest any unusual event. 

Two men, with at least thirty years’ difference in their 
ages, were sitting that September morning in one of the 
pleasantest of the many pleasant houses at Colorado 
Springs. Interior and exterior were alike suggestive of 
an English country house. The simple, tasteful furnish- 
ings seemed to have attained the ideal of refined comfort. 
On the broad green lawn in front, the masses of beauti- 
ful flowering were relieved by the dark shrubbery. 

Outside, the day was one of Colorado’s perfect days. 
Life seemed to throb with quickened pulse and deepened 
volume in this sparkling, joyous, sun-saturated air. The 
sky was one dazzling brilliance of azure. Over all, Pike’s 
Peak looked down in solemn, majestic repose on the little 
town stretched picturesquely at its feet. 

There was a silence of two or three minutes between 
the pair who sat in the long drawing-room which, despite 
various modern appointments, suggested another climate 
and habits. The clock in the hall ticked loud and im- 
perative in the stillness. At last, with an evident effort 
at self-control, the young man spoke. 

“ Did I understand you to say that the whole fortune 
had gone to wreck ? ” 

“ If I had said less, Philip, it would have been because 
I sought to spare you. Perhaps somebody else should 
have told you ; somebody who would have done it less 
bluntly — have softened the facts, somehow ! ” 

“ But all that would not have affected — facts ? ” 

Philip read the answer in the other’s face. 

At the Denver bar John Stacey had the reputation of 


GATHERING OF WINDS; BREAKING OF STORM 103 

being a shrewd, hard-headed lawyer; but at this mo- 
ment the man could not trust himself to utter a word. 

Philip Pallowes — it was less than a month since he 
had parted with Tom Draycott, a little after Class Pay, 
when the telegram with tidings of his uncle’s sudden 
illness broke up all the young men’s plans for a fort- 
night’s roughing among the Maine streams and woods — 
rose now with a deep, struggling breath ; he straightened 
himself and paced the long room several times. The 
elder man watched him in remorseful silence ; he 
knew that he was trying to gain time for thought and 
speech. 

At last Fallowes faced about and returned to his 
friend. “ This has all come on me so suddenly ! ” he 
said in a tolerably steady voice, but one tense with re- 
pressed feeling. “ I don’t seem able to compass the 
thing in a moment.” 

“ I know, Philip ; but you are not going to let this 
thunderbolt crush you.” The tone made the words an 
appeal. 

“ The wreck of the whole fortune ? I hope not. It 
takes a fellow awhile to adjust himself to such a vast 
change — to find out precisely what it means to him.” 

“ Of course — of course. All that cannot be done in 
an hour. But it may not, after all, prove so huge a cata- 
clysm as it appears ! Time, events, will certainly be- 
friend you.” 

Philip did not reply. The two sat down again. In a 
moment the question came which the lawyer had been 
forecasting all this time. 

“ Mr. Stacey, who is responsible for this thing ? How 
much did my uncle Badleigh know of it ? ” 

“ Your uncle Eadleigh was my old friend.” The law- 


104 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


yer’s lips quivered. “ That was why I wished some other 
man might tell his nephew.” 

Philip gazed out of the window. The gay sunshine, 
the glad summer-world outside, gave him a sickening sen- 
sation. He turned away sharply. “ There must be some 
infernal scoundrelism at the bottom of this business,” he 
broke out fiercely. “ Do you dare to insinuate to me that 
uncle Bad ever — ever did me any wrong?” 

The last tones rang with mounting passion. 

John Stacey was a man of hot temper, but he felt at 
that moment that if Philip Fallowes had knocked him 
down he could easily have forgiven him. 

“Be just to me — to yourself, Philip.” The tones 
were almost those of a man who sues for mercy. There 
was a little pause and the voice took a decided note. 
“ But you are wholly in the right with regard to your 
uncle. It is my unalterable conviction that Eadleigh 
Fallowes never did you an intentional wrong in his 
life.” 

Philip’s lip shook for a moment under its young brown 
mustache. When he spoke again, it was in a softened 
key, his gaze riveted to the other’s face. 

“Mr. Stacey, you are the man of all others — my 
uncle’s old friend and lawyer — to tell me the truth. I 
want to know the worst now — to have this matter sifted 
to the bottom.” 

The talk which followed lasted for several hours. The 
elder man had by far the larger share in it. The younger 
interposed often with eager, passionate questions of a 
kind that would leave no stone unturned — no fact veiled 
or softened. 

Of course this talk presupposed some knowledge of 
antecedents with which the reader cannot be acquainted. 


GATHERING OF WINDS; BREAKING OF STORM 105 


These, as well as the main points in the long, memorable 
interview, must be briefly outlined at this time. 

Philip Fallowes had lost both parents before he reached 
his tenth birthday ; he was the sole inheritor of their fort- 
unes. His only uncle, a bachelor brother of his father, 
was, with an intimate friend, appointed guardian of the 
boy and trustee of his large inheritance. The co-trustee 
died just after Philip reached his fifteenth birthday. 
From that time the sole responsibility was transferred 
to the uncle. One of the most genial and kindly of men, 
always ready to do a favor, his good nature was often 
imposed upon ; he was a most intelligent and delightful 
companion, a lover of books, with fine tastes in music 
and art. No father could have lavished more pride and 
affection on an only son than Eadleigh Fallowes did on 
his orphan nephew. Philip, for his part, adored his 
uncle. Of New England parentage, the boy had been 
born and spent his earliest years on the Pacific slope; 
but soon after the death of the joint-trustee he had ac- 
companied his relative to Denver, where the latter, hav- 
ing rather optimistic views of finance, became a good 
deal infected with the contagion of Western speculation ; 
he invested largely, and, conservative capitalists thought, 
rashly, in all sorts of Colorado property, — railroads, 
cattle-ranches, real estate, and mines whose assays 
promised early and enormous dividends. In these vent- 
ures, when he risked his own interests with unquestioning 
confidence, he would be likely to take the same course 
with Philip’s inheritance, now under his absolute control. 

The nephew, with perfect reliance on his uncle’s judg- 
ment, never asked a question. Money was the last thing 
about which he concerned himself ; he had always had 
all and more than he wanted, and this happy state of 


106 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


affairs seemed as natural to tlie fortunate youth as the 
sunrise or the procession of the seasons. 

When it came to Philip’s entering Harvard, the sep- 
aration was a severe strain on both ; but the uncle had set 
his heart on his nephew’s graduating at his own Alma 
Mater. One of Philip’s vacations had been spent abroad, 
and a long continental trip had been planned to succeed 
his graduation. 

“I am getting tired of this perpetual rush and roar 
of Western life,” exclaimed his uncle, as Philip was 
on the point of leaving for Harvard the last time. “ I 
want to pull out of it for a while, and give heart and 
brain a long rest in the quiet of some of those old, dreamy 
continental cities. We will turn our backs, one of these 
days, on the whole fool’s chase, Philip ! ” 

Something in the tone made Philip turn and gaze at 
his uncle. It was not like him, with his optimistic 
temper and abundant vitality, to talk in this strain. It 
struck him for the first time that the face had a worn, 
anxious look. 

“Uncle Pad,” he exclaimed, “you are wearing your- 
self to a shadow over your varied business affairs. Why 
don’t you let the whole thing slide ? Certainly you and 
I have all the money we can ever possibly want.” 

Radleigh Fallowes looked at his nephew — the splen- 
did, lithe, straight-shouldered fellow — with some ex- 
pression which rather startled Philip, because it puzzled 
him. 

“As for the mammon, people are not apt to find they 
have too huge a pile of it in the long run, my boy, Philip.” 

The last words were very tender. Those which went 
before might have struck a fine ear as meant for a jest, 
with some underlying thought struggling with itself. 


GATHERING OF WINDS; BREAKING OF STORM 107 


“ Well,” returned Philip with a careless, characteristic 
shrug of his shoulders, u let the rest of mankind go dig 
and grind as they will ! I, at least, am amply content 
with my share of this world’s pelf. I’ve lived long 
enough, uncle Rad, to bless my stars that I am out of 
this infernal race for riches.” 

Was that a suppressed groan he heard? On the in- 
stant there was a loud tap at the door. Uncle Rad 
wrung his nephew’s hand. The carriage was waiting 
below, and there was only time for Philip to catch the 
eastern-bound train. This was the last talk he ever had 
in his uncle’s rooms at the Denver hotel. 

When they met next, it was at Colorado Springs. 
Philip had hurried off in hot haste on receiving his tele- 
gram. Some friends of his uncle, — English people, — 
to whom, on their first coming to America, he had been 
able to render various services, had, on returning to Eng- 
land for the summer, placed their house at his disposal 
and fairly forced the acceptance upon him. 

When he came to them for a farewell visit, he looked 
troubled and had grown older ; he regretted that business 
engagements must prevent his joining Philip on Class 
Day ; he often recurred to the matter as something on 
which he had set his heart. 

Young Fallowes had reached his uncle less than two 
days before his death. He had lain for the most part in 
a comatose condition, rousing at times, however, suffi- 
ciently to recognize his nephew. Once he had gazed at 
him silently for a long time, with some inexplicable ten- 
derness and pity in his eyes. Then he spoke with slow, 
difficult utterance. “ There are many things I would 
like to explain, Phil ; but you will learn them soon 
enough. When you do, remember always that, whatever 


108 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


mistakes I made, however ' recklessly I acted some- 
times, I meant everything for your good — remember 
those as my last words ! ” 

Philip leaned over his uncle, swallowing the dry sob 
in his throat. “ I shall remember you have been always, 
uncle Rad, what only the best, tenderest father in the 
world could be to his son.” 

The loss of his uncle was the first real grief of young 
Fallowes’s life. Without him it seemed the world must 
go to pieces. 

In that morning talk with the lawyer, Philip was 
learning what the dying speech meant — learning that 
his fortune had been swallowed up in speculations and 
enterprises which seemed to have a solid basis at the 
beginning, but had collapsed with time and the pressure 
of financial crises. It is the old story which always 
appears so novel, so unparalleled, to its victim. Radleigh 
Fallowes had been the dupe, partly of unscrupulous men, 
partly of his own extravagant dreams and fatuous credu- 
lity. It was, in many cases, the lawyer averred, impos- 
sible to ferret out the facts, discover how the elder man’s 
fortune, and the much larger one with which he had 
been entrusted, had disappeared. Mining stocks, which 
paid, or had promised to, large dividends and then went 
up, like soap-bubbles, had absorbed a considerable por- 
tion of the estate. There had been other speculations, 
followed by shrinkages and failures which the shrewdest 
business instinct might not have foreseen. Philip’s 
uncle had tried to redeem his first mistakes by plunging 
deeper into speculation ; he had, for instance, gone very 
heavily into Atchison and Topeka. Some of these vent- 
ures might, with time and patience, have proved produc- 
tive j but Radleigh Fallowes had grown desperate with 


GATHERING OF WINDS; BREAKING OF STORM 109 

heavy losses, and in his need of immediate funds had 
parted with bonds and stocks at a time when their market 
values had reached the nadir. At last he could no longer 
hide the truth from himself. Not only his own fortune 
was gone ; he had wrecked Philip’s ! The consciousness, 
no doubt, had shortened his life. 

All this, with much detail, Philip learned that summer 
morning which was to form the great turning-point in 
his life, his young face growing whiter as he listened, 
his gaze riveted on the lawyer. 

There was a long pause at last. It was the younger 
man who broke it. 

“ But uncle Bad — it was all right, of course — he 
only used the money according to his best knowledge — ” 
the words died in his throat. 

The lawyer understood; he knew that the question 
which Philip failed to articulate through all these hesi- 
tancies and incoherences was one which concerned his 
uncle’s character. That was supreme with him at the 
moment when he learned he was beggared. 

The elder man moved nervously. Then he straight- 
ened himself and the two gazed a few moments silently 
in each other’s eyes. 

“ I think you would rather have me make a clean 
breast at once ? ” 

Stacey spoke in the doubtful tone of one who seeks 
rather than gives advice. 

Philip made an assenting gesture ; his face was ashen 
pale. 

“ Your uncle got into tight places with both your in- 
vestments and his own, and in order to save them, 
pledged securities which did not belong to him ; in short, 
he went beyond his legal rights in the way he handled 


110 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


and risked your properties. The law has a hard name 
for things of this sort. No doubt he brought himself to 
believe he was serving you in these transactions, and 
that the end would justify the means. Then I think he 
must have grown a little wild at last — seeing how 
things were going ; he could not otherwise have kept on 
as he did — making havoc with your estate. But what 
is the use of torturing you with details ? Had your 
uncle lived, you would not have brought any action — ” 

“ Never ! ” Philip’s voice thundered out its negative; 
“ I would have died first ! ” 

Stacey bowed. “ I have not a doubt there. In justice 
to myself I must add I had not an idea how things were 
going to the dogs. Your uncle did not confide these 
transactions to me, or I might have saved him some huge 
mistakes. Philip,” with a sharp change from- the profes- 
sional tone and manner to one of anxious sympathy, “ you 
will stand up like a brave man under this avalanche ? ” 

The look in the dark young eyes hurt the elder man. 
After a little pause the answer came. “ This blow, you 
must see, is worse than the other. Uncle Bad was all I 
had and — ” he stopped there. 

Lawyer Stacey — it is only just to say — did his utmost 
at this time to strengthen and hearten his young friend : 
he volunteered a good deal of wise counsel, as a man 
could with his varied experience in human life ; he was 
profuse, too, in suggestions for the future and pledges of 
personal interest and assistance. Philip, however, had 
reached the limit of his endurance. Stacey began to 
doubt whether he heard what he was saying to him. 

The servant came to announce lunch. The lawyer 
glanced at his watch ; he had rushed off from Denver, 
leaving an important case, for this interview. 


GATHERING OF WINDS; BREAKING OF STORM 111 

Hurrying along the avenue in order to board the next 
train for Denver, Stacey communed with himself. “ Poor 
boy ! He is awfully cut up. Ho wonder ! Brought up 
as he has been too ! Idol of his uncle ! Curled darling 
of fortune ! How is he going to breast this hurricane ? 
It seemed heartless to go off and leave him with that 
stunned look, but the case has reached a critical point 
and I must be on hand. Then I saw the greatest favor 
I could do Philip was to leave him alone.” 


112 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


X 

CHALLENGING HIS FATE 

The three or four days which followed will always be 
a kind of nightmare when Philip Fallowes looks back on 
them. They hold moments, however, which stand out 
with agonizing distinctness in his memory. 

When he looked off to his future, it seemed an utter 
impossibility to adjust his ideas and plans to the new 
life that was awaiting him, — a life all whose material 
props had fallen. To have no money — that, in the 
fewest words, was what it meant to him! He tried to 
represent it to himself in all its bareness ; but it seemed 
a good deal like a creature entering a new planet, or 
learning to breathe in a new element. The first problem 
of human existence — roof to shelter and food to nourish 
— was facing him now in all its remorseless hardness. 
How was he — Philip Fallowes — to solve it? 

At any moment of his prosperous life he would have 
resented the idea of being a mammon worshipper. All 
his instincts and tastes, inborn and trained, would have 
recoiled from the hard, arrogant, purse-proud type of 
man. He knew, of course, that poverty existed in the 
world; that it was, perhaps, the immediate occasion of 
its widest and deepest misery ; that, in all ages, some of 
the wisest and noblest souls had had to wrestle with it, 
and sometimes, in the unequal struggle, be defeated. 


CHALLENGING HIS FATE 


113 


But knowing all this was such a different thing from 
feeling that henceforth he would have to earn his own 
dinner before he could eat it! 

Then the great loss and grief which underlay all the 
rest would leap into such vivid consciousness that it 
swallowed up every other feeling. Uncle Rad was gone ! 
He would never see the dear, handsome face — never hear 
the kind, familiar tones again ! All the other loss seemed 
as nothing compared with this one. Philip never blamed 
his uncle for his own wrecked inheritance. 

“ Uncle Rad had made awful mistakes, of course, and 
been driven to desperate measures to retrieve them and 
save Philip and himself from ruin. He was not a busi- 
ness man — he, with his scholarly tastes and generous 
beliefs in men! They had taken advantage of all this; 
they had deceived, plundered, ruined him ! ” 

So Philip reasoned, his heart torn with tenderness and 
grief, but with never one disloyal throb to his uncle’s 
memory. 

Sometimes, pacing the long rooms of the silent house, 
where two or three servants had been left in charge, his 
thoughts would go back to the past, — he would be at 
Harvard once more, amid all the stirring scenes and 
interests of his undergraduate life; now he would be 
deep in his study, full of the joyous sense of ample 
horizons and kindling ideas which the acquisition of 
fresh knowledge brings to youth; now in the thick of 
athletic games and rivalries; now pacing the campus 
with Tom Draycott or having one of their long, earnest 
talks together in his own room. 

Then over all this vivid scene, a consciousness of the 
present would rush back in one overwhelming wave. 

He was unutterably glad to be alone at this crisis of 


114 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


his fate; he recoiled at the thought of going back to 
Denver and facing his uncle’s old friends. Their curious 
glances, their condolences, even their generous sympathy, 
would hurt his proud, tortured spirit. “ He would not 
be an object for their pity ! ” lifting his head with sudden 
haughtiness. “ People, no doubt, would have their say 
that Radleigh Fallowes had betrayed his trust and beg- 
gared his nephew. But the man was in his grave, and 
those who had hounded him to it would probably be 
silent now, and, as Philip would make no sign, the nine 
days’ wonder would soon be over and the great gossiping 
world go hunting other quarry than Radleigh Fallowes ! ” 

So Philip reasoned. He was aware that he had friends 
— his own and his uncle’s — who would not be wanting 
to him at this time; he probably had only to ask, and 
some standing-place in the world, some sort of occupa- 
tion, would be secured for him. He had the splendid 
equipment of youth and health, of brains and education. 
But he had no training for any special line of work. In 
his easy-going, pampered life, aptitudes which might be 
available for earning his livelihood had thus far not de- 
clared themselves. 

He knew that his uncle had designed him for the bar, 
and he himself expected, after their year or two’s travel in 
Europe, to return home and “ buckle down ” to legal study. 

“I have set my heart on your choice of a profession,” 
uncle Rad had said more than once, even before Philip 
entered Harvard. “ You will have a big fortune to look 
after, one of these days, my boy,” glancing fondly at the 
youth, “and your legal knowledge won’t come amiss in 
the thousand and one practical questions sure to turn up. 
The want of just that sort of knowledge has handicapped 
me all my life.” 


CHALLENGING HIS FATE 


115 


Philip, wounded and stunned, felt now all the fiery 
impatience of youth to cut away from his past, to plunge 
into a world of strangers and make his first trial of his 
own energies, amid entirely new scenes and associations. 
All his pride was up in arms at this time. He shrank 
from the idea of being even transiently beholden to men 
who might have felt it a pleasure to serve the nephew 
for his uncle’s sake. 

“It would reflect on him,” he said, bringing down his 
clenched hand on a small card-table with a force which 
threatened to overturn the fragile thing. “ I will seek 
no man’s help; I will shift for myself! ” 

During these days he paced the solitary rooms for 
hours, or set out on long walks, avoiding the few people 
whom he knew at Colorado Springs. Sometimes he 
would find himself in the wide stillness and amid all 
the solemn, impressive forms of the Garden of the Gods ; 
sometimes he would wander off into Cheyenne Canon, 
among its seas of wild-flowering loveliness, and listen to 
the happy choiring of its flashing creeks and the slow, 
tidal-like rise and fall of winds among its towering pines ; 
he never returned from these long, solitary walks with- 
out feeling — perhaps unconsciously — somewhat calmed, 
somehow comforted. 

His west windows commanded a splendid view of the 
mountains. He could not keep away from them. The 
huge bulk, the majestic grandeur, of Pike’s Peak, 
the beautiful lines of Cheyenne Mountain, exercised a 
fascinating spell upon him during these lonely days. 
They stood, mighty symbols of strength, repose, un- 
changeableness, in a world that for him had suddenly 
gone to pieces. 

Their very silences grew filled with mystic voices for 


116 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


him. “ Come to us ! ” they seemed to say. “ Leave the 
great world, with all its voices and strifes, behind you — 
at least for a while. You shall find the strength and 
healing we hold for you in our eternal calms, in our 
mighty solitudes ! ” 

Philip had not spent so much of his life in Colorado 
without learning much about mining life, — its hardships, 
its excitements, and the sudden fortunes of some lucky 
moment, that seemed as exciting as the old Arabian 
fictions. Stories of this sort could not fail to dazzle the 
imagination of an eager, listening boy. They recurred 
vividly now, with a special relation to himself. 

“Was not this,” he reflected, “the opening he wanted? 
Could he not gather himself together, seek some out-of- 
the-way place in the great Range, and try his first struggle 
with fate? There would, of course, be hardships of all 
kinds, and a rough apprenticeship to serve; but” — a 
little quiver crossed his under lip — “ what did all that 
matter now? ” 

Young Fallowes could never be sure of the precise 
moment when he made up his mind to go off into the 
mining-camps; but one morning, gazing from his west 
window on Pike’s Peak, when its vast shoulders were 
shawled in gray mists, he knew that his decision was 
made. 

It was like his present mood to be all eagerness for 
change and action. In this crisis of his destiny he con- 
sulted no soul ; he carried out his plans with all the rash 
absoluteness of youth and inexperience. 

A conversation which he had overheard on his return 
trip from the East recurred to him. Under other cir- 
cumstances he might never have thought of it again. 
A couple of miners occupied seats in the car in close 


CHALLENGING HIS FATE 


117 


proximity to his own. They were conspicuous for fine 
broadcloth and flamboyant neckties. They were loud 
and voluble, if not grammatical, over mining experiences 
and recent lucky “ finds.” Philip, in his anxieties over 
the uncle to whom he was hastening, listened idly to the 
talk. Much of it was concerned with a new mining 
region in the northwestern part of the Pocky Mountain 
Pange, where rich pockets and promising leads had been 
discovered among the foot-hills. A new settlement in a 
rough district, fifty miles from the nearest station of the 
Denver and Pio Grande Pailroad, was struggling into 
life. Close at hand, on a broad, wilderness-plateau of 
the lower foot-hills, the early stages of mining work — 
sinking of shafts, boring of tunnels, and aggregation 
of engines and varied machinery — were being rapidly 
pushed. The name of the settlement was Miner’s Pest. 
Philip had wondered whether it had anything to do with 
that grim Western humor so largely responsible for the 
nomenclature of the mining districts. 

Philip Fallowes made up his mind to challenge his 
fate and start at once for this unknown corner of the 
world. Time and a less desperate mood might have 
modified this rash resolve. As it was, he acted on the 
spur of the moment; he purchased a miner’s outfit, wrote 
to Stacey, making known his decision, and asking him 
to dispose of his uncle’s personal effects to defray all 
outstanding debts. In less than a week after their mo- 
mentous interview, he set out for Miner’s Pest. 


118 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XI 

THE CRISIS 

Philip Pallowes had been at Miners Rest more than 
a month. It seemed to him longer than all the rest of 
his life. It had been one ceaseless battle with deadly 
homesickness and inarticulate misery. The wonder with 
him was that life could be so intolerable and yet a fellow 
manage to drag himself through it. His present was as 
totally dissociated from his past as though "a trackless 
abyss separated them. He had plunged, totally unpre- 
pared, and in a crisis of young desperation, into the 
sternest and roughest conditions of mining life, in a 
remote northwestern region of the Rocky Mountain 
Range. The daily hardships, the numberless privations, 
were such as to tax the nerve and endurance of men long 
seasoned in mountain camps. What must these have 
been to the delicately trained youth, whose fastidious 
tastes and habits had become a second nature ! He had 
borne it all silently, withdrawing into himself, seeking 
no companionship, no sympathy, and finding in the hard, 
rough mining community, with its coarse talk, its vul- 
gar jests, its endless profanity, his deepest repugnance 
and disgust. 

But this rude community was not long in perceiving 
the unflattering estimate which the handsome young 
stranger who had appeared in its midst had formed of 


THE CRISIS 


119 


it. It had swift resentful instincts. It let him alone 
for a while; but when the time came, and the feeling 
had intensified, it would be likely to take the summary 
methods of mountain camps in expressing its indigna- 
tion. 

Philip had been too much absorbed in his own misery 
to give a thought to the opinions others might be enter- 
taining of him. In some moods he cursed himself for 
rushing off into this savage mountain wilderness. He 
had many minds to leave it, but the inexorable questions 
always came up : “Where was he to go?” “What was 
he to do? ” 

His funds were rapidly dwindling. Living, even in 
a wretched cabin and on miner’s fare, was incredibly 
expensive in such altitudes and with such imperfect 
methods of transportation. If he presented himself at 
Denver, he had no means to pay his bills for a week at 
the hotel where he had shared his uncle’s apartments. 
There was the pinch, too ! It would be certain to call 
down reproaches on the uncle, if his nephew showed 
himself penniless in his old home. Poor uncle Pad! 
The old grief tore at his heart again. 

Philip, during this nightmare of misery, gave himself 
no rest. Some fierce impulse goaded him to incessant 
activity. This, perhaps, kept him from utter despair. 
Dressed in the universal blue-flannel shirt, his corduroy 
trousers tucked into his high boots, getting a fresh layer 
of tan every day, he went off by himself into deep, 
dreary, boulder-littered gulches, where he staked his 
claims, or climbed the bare, desolate ledges with panting 
breath, and toiled with his pick until he was ready to 
sink with fatigue. 

Miner’s Best — the name was a misnomer now, but no 


120 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


doubt expressed as truthfully as poetically the feeling 
of the pioneers who first penetrated through the upper 
country of peaks and ragged ravines and boulder-cluttered 
ledges to its seclusion — was originally one of the love- 
liest spots on earth. It was a long, cradle-shaped canon, 
which had snuggled itself down in the heart of the 
foot-hills. A brown creek went singing, flashing, and 
tumbling down the long, irregular line of terraces at the 
head of the valley. Wide expanses of meadow, stretches 
of noble woods, and all the radiant loveliness of masses 
of Colorado wild flowers must have made the place a 
Paradise before man had invaded it. His occupation 
had converted it from beauty to ugliness. A long street, 
bare and unsightly, sprawled for more than a mile along 
what had lately been gay, flower-littered meadows. 
There were two or three gambling-saloons, clusters of 
rude, flat-roofed log-cabins, box-like houses, built of 
unseasoned pine, with a sprinkling of canvas tents. 
Everything was as grim, unkempt, and unsightly as a 
mining town could possibly be in the first stages of 
exploitation and in a back mountain wilderness. 

Yet painful as was the sight of this despoiled loveli- 
ness, the true altruist would have found consolation in 
reflecting that the place represented immeasurably higher 
values from the hour when man had penetrated and rav- 
ished its virgin solitudes. 

Over all these the Mountains, silent, steadfast, implac- 
able, looked down from their far heights on the marred 
loveliness, as they had looked down on the hidden canon 
which for ages had smiled and dimpled and burst into 
seas of wild blossoming at their feet. 

One night Philip Fallowes, in an access of disgust 
with the vile tobacco smoke and the viler jokes of several 


THE CRISIS 


121 


miners and muleteers with whom he had shared a cabin, 
rose abruptly and, without word or sign to his compan- 
ions, started out on a solitary tramp. He struck off into 
a narrow trail which, just outside the settlement, twisted 
itself around a jagged, boulder-strewn slope, until it 
reached a plateau of close pine woods. He plunged 
into these and threw himself down on the thick mat of 
pine needles; he wondered — this tall, strong youth of 
twenty -three — whether there was in the whole world a 
being so hopelessly wretched as himself! A cold despair 
settled upon his soul. There was a gray sky overhead. 
The wind moaned desolately among the pines. Occasion- 
ally a star would peer out from a broken cloud, as a 
sweet face glances from a lattice and is gone. He was 
glad to get away from all the hateful sights and sounds 
of Miner’s Eest. 

Philip Pallowes had, under his healthy brown hue, 
been losing flesh rapidly during these weeks. No one 
had observed this, and Philip, if he had known, would 
not have cared. It was the culminating moment of his 
misery. He longed for death, as he sat motionless at 
the foot of the towering pine. 

In crises like this, men usually think of suicide. The 
idea more than once flashed across Philip’s brain. He 
fingered the revolver at his belt. Life, with all its young 
powers and strengths, was throbbing high in his pulses; 
he drew his hand away with a shudder. 

He found himself hungering suddenly for some human 
companionship. For the first time it struck him that 
he had been holding himself rigorously aloof from the 
human life about him. He reflected that if he were 
found dead under the pines next morning, not a soul 
would spare him one regretful thought. The kindliest 


122 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


comment would be: “Poor fellow! An unlucky dog, 
anyhow! Not one of your hail-fellow-well-met sort! 
Run his head into the wrong hole when he showed him- 
self in the roughest kind of a backwoods, devil-may-care, 
Rocky minin’ camp ! ” 

Young Fallowes winced a little at thought of these 
speeches. The reaction from the long tension of days 
of solitary misery was setting in. “Down below, less 
than a mile away, ” he reflected, “ the saloons were open, 
the lights were flaring, the glasses clinking about the 
bar.” He heard the loud voices, the vulgar jests, the 
hoarse guffaws, that greeted some sally of native wit. 
These men were drinking, carousing, gambling, after 
the day’s hard labor at pounding the rocks or washing 
the grains of gold from pay gravel. 

A great wave of temptation swept over soul and flesh 
of the young man. The swiftness and fierceness of the 
revulsion was largely due to the novel conditions and 
experiences which had surrounded him for weeks. A 
passionate longing for human fellowship assailed him. 

“What was the use,” he asked himself, “of being 
fastidious about the quality? He must take what was 
at hand. Pate, or his own folly, had brought him 
among these people. He might as well swallow his 
scruples, accept the situation, and plunge into the 
current.” 

Philip had the inexperience of youth. Could he have 
penetrated to the sources of his mood, he might have 
obtained some mastery over it. As it was, he yielded 
to the social impulses and half -animal instincts astir 
within him. The thought of the warmth and light, the 
crowds and tawdry decorations of the saloons allured his 
imagination. “ Why should he not go down and try their 


THE CRISIS 


123 


way?” lie asked himself, striking the heel of his boot 
sharply into the soft rug of pine needles. “ Why could 
he not be sharing in the fun and trying the novel experi- 
ment of drowning his misery in one good solid drunk! 
If he was in for it, too, he might try his luck at the 
gambling-table. Possibly he might win, and a little 
addition to his funds just now would not come amiss. 
But, of course,” — his outraged conscience interposing at 
this point, — “he could take care of himself; he would 
not go near certain kinds of mire in which some of the 
others were wallowing! ” 

Philip Pallowes sprang to his feet; his resolution was 
taken; he had reached the darkest, the most perilous, 
moment of his life. Perhaps some instinct made him 
half conscious of this; for, as he drew up his tall figure 
and stretched his arms, he broke out, angry and defiant, 
as though in answer to some rebuking inner voice : “ I 
cannot bear this any longer! I tell you, I will not. It 
will simply drive me mad to stay here in this darkness 
and solitude. Warmth and light and some kind of 
human companionship are waiting for me down there. 
I swear I am going to them if I am going to the devil! ” 

. A moment later he came rapidly out of the deep 
shadow of the pines and started by the narrow, writhing 
trail for the settlement. 

A gleam slanted suddenly across a big, gray boulder in 
his path. He glanced up at the sky ; he saw the moon 
had just crept over a sharp peak on his right. The gray 
clouds had broken and lay in tangled streamers around 
the oval of deep azure against which shone the serene 
loveliness of her face. 

Pallowes stood still. The sight had recalled another 
scene. It was a midsummer evening, and he was walk- 


124 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


ing on the piazza at Amoury Roost, and all Red Berry 
Roads, flooded with moonshine, lay around him, and a 
young girl in the charm and freshness of dawning woman- 
hood was walking by his side. That was the happiest 
hour, the dearest memory, of all his past ! 

He heard the soft-cadenced, girlish voice again, the 
catches of breath, the breaks of laughter, and saw the 
wonderful brown eyes glancing away from him to 
the moon, — the same moon shining up there now on 
the crest of the mountain. 

That girl was in the world to-night. All that purity 
and beauty of soul and of flesh which had drawn him so 
subtly and powerfully swept back again, and possessed 
heart and thought and memory; he stood still on a little 
shelf of rock over which the trail passed, and he gazed 
at the fleecy clouds and the stars flocking between them ; 
but when he looked at the moon, he shuddered and in- 
voluntarily put his hand before his eyes. It was not 
the calm gaze of the moon which had sent that sickening 
thrill through him; it was the thought of Dorothy 
Draycott’s eyes looking into his soul! 

For he had remembered where he was going ! 

Philip retraced his way to the pines with a blind 
instinct to get as far as possible from the place for which 
he had started with such fierce eagerness. 

The clouds were rapidly vanishing by this time, and 
the moon in mid-sky had now the right of way. She 
rode over the treetops and filled the woods with a weird, 
tender, mystic light. Philip trod to and fro among the 
boles in the still shadows and the silver gleams. All 
his soul — its nobler faculties, its finer impulses — was 
kindled within him. The deadly paralysis and despair 
had passed forever. Now that he had come to himself, 


THE CRISIS 


125 


he could only recall with loathing the thoughts and 
resolves of an hour before. 

Far away as Dorothy Draycott had been that night, it 
was not so far that she could not come back and call him 
from madness and despair to life and hope and courage. 
He realized fully what she had been — what she had 
done for him. That young romance of which he had 
never breathed a syllable to human ears, must always 
now have a sacred association with this night in his 
memory. Had she not dawned upon his life, from the 
first, something better and finer than all his dreams of 
girlhood! He had always been conscious that her pres- 
ence, her ingenuous, bewitching talk, playful as child- 
hood one moment and earnest with dawning womanhood 
the next, had kindled the noblest desires, the highest 
aspirations, his careless, happy youth had known. In 
his boundless gratitude, he covenanted with himself now 
never to shame that hour, that scene, that memory of 
her. Here would be something worth living for! He 
grasped at the idea with the eagerness of young imagina- 
tion and passionate feeling. 

In the revulsion of his mood, the expansion of his 
mental horizon, the inflooding of new thoughts and emo- 
tions, he paced for hours the dim wood-aisles. Fresh 
plans and purposes stirred within him. He would no 
longer live silent and alien among these rough men; he 
would adjust himself to the hard conditions ; he would 
be friends with the people of Miner’s Rest. 

At last the midnight lay still, drowned in white moon- 
shine about him. The winds had fallen into that low 
pathos with which they dream among the pines. Philip 
came to a standstill. The idea of going down into the 
cabin among the malodors and the heavy snores of the 


126 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


sleepers was doubly repugnant to-night. He threw him- 
self at the foot of an ancient pine, and, overcome by the 
long stress of emotion, was soon fast asleep. 

He awoke with a start. The gray dawn was struggling 
in among the wood shadows. The day would soon be 
filling sky and air and earth with life and song and joy. 
Philip leaped suddenly to his feet. The last night had 
swept over him in one great flooding memory. He went 
to the edge of the pines and gazed out on the wide scene. 
Below him lay the little mining settlement, with its 
straggling pine-boxes of houses, its groups of huddled 
log-cabins, its smelting works, and its frequent unsightly 
dumps of gray and red soil. Then he turned to gaze at 
the Mountains. His eyes swept that mighty circuit with 
new, joyful recognition. Mountains are responsive to 
one’s mood. At Colorado Springs they had revealed 
themselves to Philip Fallowes, grand, beneficent, sym- 
pathetic; at Miner’s Best they had seemed to him 
menacing, alien, implacable. But he saw now with 
another vision. The vast bulks, the soaring heights, 
the solemn presences, were before him in all their awful 
majesty, in all their mysterious beauty. His gaze fol- 
lowed as they climbed to the far, lonely skies — climbed 
by way of fair, sunny foot-hill terraces, and gracious 
woods, and canons, gay with flowers, and flashing creeks, 
by way of dark mountain wildernesses and frowning 
precipices and piled rocky ledges, to the far timber line, 
to the dazzling whiteness of the eternal snows. He had 
seen all this before, but he had seen it under the paralysis 
of his homesickness and despair. It had been to him — 
that great Bocky Mountain vision — an implacable force, 
an infinite, savage desolation. He saw it now with new 
meanings and interpretations, a grandeur and a glory 
beyond all reach of words. 


THE CRISIS 


127 


Then, in a moment, the whole scene was erased by 
swift, smarting tears. He was thinking of the night 
again, and saying softly to himself : 

“You cannot hear across the silence and the distance, 
but I shall keep my covenant — God helping me ! ” 

He went down to Miner’s Rest in that new-risen day, 
the same and yet another. Tall, young, strong-limbed, 
he made, in his flannel suit, a striking figure, if any one 
in that rude, toiling world had cared to notice it. 

That morning young Fallowes shouldered pick and 
spade and started once more on his quest for the treasure 
sealed, from the foundations of the world, in the deep 
vaults of the Rocky Mountains. 


\ 


128 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XII ' 

RUNNING HIM OUT 

Something was evidently going on ! It was the hour 
for the afternoon shift in the Good-Luck Mine. A large 
company from the settlement had congregated about 
the shaft, on the edge of the wilderness, less than a mile 
from Miner’s Rest. 

A rich lead had been unearthed, and the owners were 
pushing the work, sanguine of success. The plateau, left 
for untold ages to its beautiful wilderness growths of 
flowering thickets and tangled creepers, presented the 
riddled, defaced, unsightly area which characterizes a 
newly opened mining region. 

But business of the ordinary kind was evidently not 
the purpose which had drawn the motley crowd together. 
It consisted largely of grimed, slouch-shouldered, toil-worn 
men. There was a scant sprinkling of women. Some of 
these were bareheaded; others wore handkerchiefs or 
hats, evidently snatched in haste, and adjusted by their 
wearers on the way to the shaft. Some Mexicans, with 
bright blankets draped about their small, wiry figures, 
lent the scene effective values in the- way of color. It 
must have been evident to a dull perception that some 
mischief was brewing. A rostrum had been improvised 
out of a tar-barrel. One orator after another ascended 
this and delivered a brief speech, much emphasized by 


RUNNING HIM OUT 


129 


mining slang and fervid gesticulation. The dingy, gap- 
ing crowd gradually enlarged by accretions to its out- 
skirts. The volume of tone from the tar-barrel expanded 
to reach the widening circle. The mood of the audience 
grew more excited and angry as the heated oratory pro- 
ceeded. 

Yet the lack in all the speeches of definite or weighty 
charges must have struck a shrewd listener. The talk 
was adroitly adapted to the prejudices and passions of 
the hearers. It was evidently aimed at some person or 
persons who had given offence, perhaps involuntarily, 
in a community with keen susceptibilities and accustomed 
to prompt resentments. 

“We’ve no occasion, my friends,” began one speaker, 
a huge-fisted, brawny fellow with a bush of thick, un- 
kempt beard, “for your high an’ mighty tenderfoot in 
this locality. Airs that are insults, looks that are sneers, 
ways o’ carryin’ one’s self in the presence of others that 
call for a pistol to leap lively from the belt of a man o’ 
sperit, can’t be put up with forever in this locality. No, 
sirs ! The people are not of the meek and meesly stripe 
that will bear long with goin’s on of that color. You’re 
the kind of crowd, too, when your mind is made up to a 
course of action, that carries it out all-fired quick. Yes, 
sirs ! Dilly-dallyin’ ain’t the tune that wins high in this 
latitude. When you decide it’s healthy for a man to clear 
out of these diggin’s, you know how to show him the 
back door without sayin’ ‘ By your leave ! ’ ” 

Hearty applause greeted these truculent remarks and 
somewhat mixed metaphors, in the midst of which the 
perspiring orator descended the rostrum. His speech 
was fairly representative of the temper and intellectual 
quality of several which followed, 


130 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Then a speaker of a different type appeared. He was 
a small, wiry, smooth-faced man. After mounting the 
barrel, he put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the 
crowd with a cool, self-complacent stare. He had never 
spoken to young Fallowes; he had only seen him occa- 
sionally as he passed on the street; but he had certain 
political ambitions, and it was always his aim to be in 
evidence when there was a chance for oratorical display ; 
he was quick to seize the temper of an audience and to 
strike the grandiloquent key. 

“My friends,” he began, his tongue “glib and oily,” 
“it appears that I have somehow been makin’ a great 
mistake regardin’ you. I have been lookin’ upon you 
here at Miner’s Rest as brave pioneers in the march of 
civilization; fellin’ the forests, fightin’ the wild beasts, 
and facin’ all sorts of hardships and privations and toils 
in layin’ the foundations of future mighty cities, and 
searchin’ out the wealth sleepin’ in this Rocky Mountain 
soil. I am free to confess that your work has seemed to 
me the noblest that men can set their hearts and hands 
on doin’. I thought such high courage, such scorn of 
difficulties, and such mighty achievements must cover 
your names with glory and earn the eternal gratitude of 
your country ! 

“But I’ve learned, within the last few weeks, that I 
was mistaken. There’s somebody — a young stranger 
from the ends of the earth — who’s appeared among us, 
with high swellin’ airs and graces, who means to reverse 
all this. Brave men, takin’ their lives in their hands, 
facin’ awful perils by field and flood, toilin’ with strained 
muscles and sweatin’ brows, ain’t the sort for him. In 
his eyes you’re a hard, vulgar, rude-tongued crowd. 
You don’t put on the varnish thick; you ain’t got the 


RUNNING HIM OUT 


131 


polish of drawingrooms; you’re jest common clay, good 
for nothin’ but to lie down and let your betters walk; 
rough-shod, over you ! That, so far as I understand it, 
is what this new party has come to teach us, and is a mild 
statement of what all his looks an’ acts an’ bearin’ are 
intended to express. 

“Now, all I have to say in conclusion is, it remains 
for Miner’s Rest to say how long this nonsense — this 
outrage and insolence, rather — is goin’ on ; how long, 
my friends, it will be before you, men of spirit and self- 
respect, rise up and take the measures you understand 
so well in dealin’ with it sharply an’ effectively! ” 

This speech made more impression than any which 
had preceded it. Hoarse, angry exclamations, profanity, 
profuse and fervid, began to voice the waxing sentiment. 

“Run out the tenderfoot! What’s he loafin’ round 
here for, anyhow?” 

“One of your Eastern swells, not condescendin’ to 
speak to his betters any more’n to dogs under his feet. 
Run him out, I say, an’ have a little fun over the job, 
too ! ” 

The crowd was fast becoming a mob. 

At this moment there was a diversion. 

A group was seen hurrying breathlessly toward the 
company around the shaft, and which probably now num- 
bered more than a hundred people. The group was 
composed of a tall, stoop-shouldered, light-haired man, 
a small, slender woman making desperate efforts to keep 
up with his rapid stride, and a child in his arms. 
Occasionally he slackened his pace and made an eager 
signal to the crowd. As he drew near, everybody recog- 
nized him; he was one of the oldest settlers at Miner’s 
Rest. 


132 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


"It's Abner Baynes with his wife an’ little darter,” 
■spoke up one man to his neighbor, after a long, curious 
stare. “ Looks as though the man had lost his wits ! ” 

As the miner drew within hearing, he held the child 
up eagerly. 

“Jest look at her, will you?” he shouted hoarsely. 
“She’s got suthin’ to say here, if you’ll give her a 
chance ! ” 

The shout penetrated to the centre of the crowd. By 
this time the appearance of the new-comers, the urgency 
of the speaker, and the strangeness of the request, had 
aroused general curiosity. 

“This promises some fun, boys,” spoke up a wag in a 
loud voice. “Let the baby mount the barrel! ” 

The crowd fell apart, and — a spectacle for curious stares 
and a world of rough and amused comments — the tall, 
stoop-shouldered man, the small, shrinking woman in a 
faded gray gown, and a child with big, astonished eyes 
passed through the human lane opened up to them. 

The miner placed the girl in his wife’s arms, said 
something to the latter, receiving a quick, responsive 
nod, and sprang on the barrel. The late sunlight struck 
across his scant beard and his long, thin face. He was 
evidently quite unused to speaking in public; he stretched 
his neck forward and gave his trousers an awkward 
twitch. 

“ I’ve jest heered, my friends,” he began in an unsteady 
voice, while a breathless hush fell upon the audience, 
“that you’re debatin’ about runnin’ out this new party 
that’s appeared among us of late. How I ain’t here to 
argue ag’in that with you. But I’ve got a little story 
to tell, and you wouldn’t understand what Bachie has to 
say without I’d spoke fust, 


RUNNING HIM OUT 


133 


“It’s only last week that I went over to the black- 
smith’s at In jin Ford to get a little job done. I took 
Rachie along on horseback, — not dreamin’ o’ danger, — 
and set her down to play in the grass and flowers. The 
blacksmith and I fell into a discussion on politics, and 
Rachie wandered off to the creek, jest where it gets 
deeper, below the ford. She must have got to playin’ 
on the edge of the bank where the slope is steep, and — 
all to once she wasn’t playin’ on that bank any more ! 

“ She gave one wild shriek as she fell in. That young 
stranger you’re down on was a passin’ on a mustang, and 
he heered her. He was off that animal’s back and down 
to the creek quicker’n chain lightnin’; he see a little 
dark head ” — the speaker’s voice faltered — “ and it was 
right in the current that goes — not far off — to Goblin 
Falls; he struck out for that head; he had a struggle 
for it, — the current’s swift there, you know, — but he 
clutched the hair at last and made for the shore. 

“ It was awful suddent oii me when he appeared with 
Rachie, her eyes shet tight, her head hangin’ to one side, 
her face white as the dead, and both of ’em drenched to 
the skin. 

“ When I see her like that, I hadn’t any more life left 
in me than a stone; but he shouted out: ‘She isn’t dead, 
man! We must get to work and get her out of this, 
quick ! ’ 

“He was as good as his word, and the blacksmith — 
he helped. We got her close to the forge-fire, and that 
young man went to work lively, rubbin’ her limbs, 
turnin’ her over, and doin’ heaps of things to bring her 
to. It seemed hours, though they said it wasn’t many 
minutes, afore Rachie opened her eyes and stared, and 
when she see me she smiled, and then I knew it wasn’t 


134 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


a little drowndid girl I’d have to carry home to her 
mother that night. 

“ Now, my friends, when I heered, a little while ago, 
that you was a-talkin’ of runnin’ this young feller out, 
I said to myself, and I think you’ll all agree with me, 
‘Now, Abner Baynes, you’ll be the cussedest sneak in all 
Miner’s Rest if you don’t set right off with Rachie to 
Good-Luck shaft and tell this story jest as it happened, 
and then let her make her little speech for the man who 
saved her life.’ Some of you that hears me is fathers 
and mothers, and knows what it would mean for us to 
have that prattlin’ little voice still, and never hear the 
busy little feet trudgin’ round the house ag’in; and you 
will be able to calkilate how Rachie’s marm and I must 
feel toward that young stranger.” 

Then an effective little drama ensued. The crowd 
watched, silent, breathless, while the speaker bent 
down and lifted the child from her mother’s arms. The 
latter had been whispering something in Rachie’s ears 
while her father was talking, and she had listened with 
quick intelligence, and nodded her head several times, 
and repeated some words to her mother. The afternoon 
was by this time growing late. The sun swept its long, 
crimson shafts over the motley crowd of rough men and 
faded women gathered around the mouth of the shaft. 
The ancient mountains gazed down, far, solemn, inscrut- 
able, on the little human drama going on at their feet. 

Rachel Baynes was not what one would call a pretty 
child. She had a chubby figure, a square, red-cheeked 
face, with a bit of irregular nose, and she had been 
snatched up and borne off in such haste that her thick 
black hair was one mass of small rings and big tangles. 
But her eyes redeemed everything. They had a rich 


RUNNING HIM OUT 


135 


hazel tint, and were the brightest, merriest child’s eyes 
in the world. 

As for her dress, she wore a pink, stiffly starched calico 
frock, and her little shoes were on the point of bursting 
out at the toes. 

Lifted in the arms of her father, she focussed every 
gaze as she stared on all those upraised faces. Then a 
sudden fright overcame her; she turned her head and 
buried it on her father’s shoulder. No studied action 
could have been so effective as that touch of child-nature. 

Baynes whispered to his daughter and patted her back 
in his awkward man’s way. At last she lifted her head, 
turned her face to the crowd once more, reached out her 
fat little hands; her red cheeks were puffed with her 
effort to speak, and when the shrill, faltering, infantile 
voice piped up, the rustle of a leaf might have been 
heard in the stillness. 

“Pwease don’t wun him out! Pwease to wet him 
sta-a-y ! ” The last monosyllable was a long-drawn 
crescendo. 

Some of the women drew the corners of their shawls 
to their eyes. Others were seen shaking their heads and 
talking with great fervor to their husbands. The men 
• looked at each other helplessly. It was perfectly evident 
that the mood of the mining shaft had undergone a soften- 
ing change ; but it was half ashamed of its own better 
feeling, and needed somebody to articulate this in a 
tactful way. 

The wag who had been the first to propose that Rachie 
should address the crowd grasped the situation. He was 
a youngish man, with an abundance of reddish beard, a 
shrewd face, and a humorous twinkle in his eye. 

He made a sign to Baynes. Rachie was speedily trans- 


136 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


ferred to the arms of her mother, and the wag mounted 
the tar-barrel. 

“ My friends,” he said, stroking his beard in a leisurely 
way, “ we folks up here in the Rocky Mountains may not 
be the most polished and high-toned people in the world, 
but a Western crowd has al’ays been famed for its 
gallantry to the female sect. You’ve heered Rachie’s 
speech. It was short and to the p’int. I move that we 
wind up this business by givin’ her three cheers.” 

These remarks were most happily adapted to the hour 
and the audience. The man who made them was accus- 
tomed to dealing with Western mobs. 

The forest rang with the full-volumed cheers, and the 
echoes sent them rioting back. 

Philip Fallowes would not be run out of Miner’s Rest 
that day. 


THE SMALL BOY*S PART IN THE DRAMA 137 


XIII 

THE SMALL BOY’S PART IN THE DRAMA 

The scene at the mining shaft took place only two 
days after Philip had that memorable night in the pine 
foot-hills. The chief instigators of the movement were 
his fellow-lodgers at the cabin, whose susceptibilities had 
been offended by his silence and what they regarded as 
his insulting obliviousness of their presence and conver- 
sation. One of the men had made a bet that “ he could 
get a big roar of laughter out of that solemn dude.” 
The story which was to work this miracle on Philip’s 
risibles was begun after supper. Just as it reached its 
rib-splitting climax, he coolly rose and, without glance 
or word for his companions, hurried from the scene. 
Such overt contempt was not to be endured by men swift 
to retaliate fancied slight or insult with bowie-knife and 
revolver. The half dozen resolved themselves into an 
indignation meeting. Its sequel was the congregation 
at the mining shaft two days later. Philip Fallowes 
was not aware for several days, of the incident in which 
he had so high stake. He had been more or less con- 
scious of curious glances and of what seemed a new 
interest and friendliness in the manner of certain people 
toward himself. But he attributed any manifestation of 
this sort to the change in his own feeling and his expres- 
sion of it. He had begun to carry out his purpose of 


138 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


making the best of his surroundings, including their 
social element; he had shown more of the friendly and 
cordial side of his nature than was possible when it was 
under that deadly paralysis of homesickness and despair; 
he had talked and jested with the men as he came in 
various contacts with them. Some of these had looked 
surprised, but, as a rule, the response had been frank 
and hearty. 

Philip had not, of course, the dimmest notion that he 
had given offence to a soul in the mining community. 

The knowledge, when it came, was a stunning surprise, 
and derived from a most unlikely source. Philip was 
on his way to the mountains one morning. It was less 
than a week after the scene at the Good-Luck shaft. He 
passed a little group of fresh-built pine tenements, look- 
ing, from a slight distance and elevation, as though the 
next mountain-blast might topple them over. In front 
of one of these was a small boy with a mass of light 
curly hair, which stood up as though in perpetual defi- 
ance of comb and brush, with a soiled apron, ragged 
trousers, and bare feet. He was blowing a tin trumpet, 
expending his utmost strength on the hideous noises; 
but these came to a dead stop when he caught sight of 
Philip. He threw his toy on the ground and dashed 
forward to gaze with wide, short-lashed eyes at the 
stranger, much as he would have done at some novel 
species of wild animal emerged from his mountain- 
fastness. 

This thought, and the quaint appearance of the child, 
struck Philip with amusement. 

He stopped his stride. “Well, sir,” he asked in a 
grave tone, “what, on the whole, do you think of me, 
anyhow?” 


THE SMALL BOY’S PART IN THE DRAMA 139 


The boy wriggled his shoulders shyly, but still kept 
the stare of eyes almost as light as his lashes on Philip. 
At last he broke out, in a high-pitched, childish key : 

“I — I can’t make up my mind.” 

It was Philip’s turn to stare now. He suppressed in 
time a burst of laughter, and his voice was as serious as 
the boy’s when he replied: 

“ Perhaps I can help you to decide, sir. Will you tell 
me your name?” 

“It’s Benny Burrows.” 

“May I inquire how old you are?” 

“I’m past seven,” straightening himself importantly 
at such an advanced record of years. 

“Well, Benny Burrows, will you be good enough to 
state why you find it so difficult a matter to make up your 
mind regarding me? ” 

At seven, it is not easy to formulate one’s ideas. 
Benjamin drew a long breath, dropped his head, worked 
his toes in the sand, then looked up suddenly with a new 
light in his eyes. 

“Be you a tenderfoot? Be you a big, horrid swell? 
Be you? ” he repeated, eagerly drawing a little closer. 

It was at once apparent to Philip that these terms 
had their origin in some maturer brain than the ques- 
tioner’s. 

“I have never regarded myself in that light. But 
who says I am all those dreadful things?” 

“ Oh, everybody — most ! ” 

“But who is ‘everybody,’ Benny?” 

Again the defiant curls went down, and the toes had 
a large share in the next mental process. The head went 
up once more. 

“ They said it at Good-Luck shaft. They said it ever 


140 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


so many times. I was there and stood close to the barrel, 
and heered when the men spoke. It was — jolly ! ” 

This began to be something more to the listener. He 
drew close to the boy now. 

“What were they doing at the Good-Luck shaft?” 

This time the answer came without any pause. 

“Oh, they was goin’ to run you out! There was such 
a big crowd. They would have done it, too, if it hadn’t 
been for her.” 

“ Who was ‘her’?” 

“I mean Bachie Baynes. Her father and mother 
brought her as soon as they knew. He made a speech 
fust on the barrel, and told how you sprung into In jin 
Creek and ketched her hair jest as she was a-drowndin’, 
and all you did. Then he took up Bachie, and when 
she got over bein’ scairt at the crowd, she made a 
little speech for you. It was so still everybody 
heered.” 

Philip was silent a moment. Then he said : “ Benny, 
my boy, you were close by ; you must have heard. Won’t 
you tell me all Bachie said? ” 

Again there was a little hesitation. But all the cir- 
cumstances had powerfully impressed the child’s imagi- 
nation. After he began, there was no difficulty. The 
scene, with its vivid dramatic power, all came back. He 
imitated Bachie’s gestures; he repeated her speech — 
word for word — with the infantile voice and lisps. 

Not many minutes later Philip moved away. He was 
not sure whether he was dreaming. He had managed to 
slip a half-dollar into Benny’s hands, resolving that the 
boy should meet with a larger reward if half-dollars ever 
again grew plentiful with him, and leaving Benny him- 
self dumb with amazement and delight. 


THE SMALL BOY’S PART IN THE DRAMA 141 


Philip went on his way, thought and feeling in a 
tumult of rage. 

“ So they had intended to run him out of Miner’s Best, 
had they? Beasts! Monsters!” His hot young blood 
boiled. The whole scene, as the child’s few sentences 
had depicted it, rose before him now, — the angry crowd, 
the blatant orators, the shameful intent. He had a swift 
impulse, or rather a hundred, to turn back and shake the 
dust of Miner’s Best forever from his feet. 

Then another picture came up. Little Bachie, in her 
father’s arms, her hands stretched out to the upturned 
faces, her small, piping voice making its plea for him — 
more effective with that mob of coarse, angry men than 
the most finished oratory. 

What made him turn blind, and why was he stumbling 
among the boulders of the gully? He understood when 
he felt the sudden wet on his cheeks. 

Philip did not make much of a success of that day’s 
work. His eager interest in boring mines and locating 
claims was, for the time, much absorbed in other issues. 
He remembered, when his fiery indignation had cooled a 
little, how he had told himself, in the great crisis of his 
fate, that he had not a friend in all Miner’s Best. One 
man had proved that Philip was mistaken. Absorbed in 
other matters, he had scarcely given a thought to his 
rescue of the child, but he recalled now the scene at the 
forge, when Baynes had wrung his hand in his own 
calloused one, and said, with a big, struggling sob : 

“ You have saved my child’s life, young man. If it 
ever comes about that I can do anything for you, you 
may count on me to the death.” 

“ And, by Jove, he proved it! The way he set out to 
help, when he found the mob meant mischief, was heroic ! ” 


142 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


said Philip, with a glow of admiration. “His way of 
doing it, too, was wonderfully shrewd — bringing that 
little tot to the fore and getting her to speak up for me. 
The marvel is how such an infant got through with it. 
Bless her little piping voice ! It proved effective, too ! ” 

Then Philip saw himself in imagination hustled out 
of the town, in the rough fashion of Western mobs. The 
contemplation was not agreeable. Nobody could tell how 
far such a mob might go if its prejudices and passions 
were once aroused. 

But aroused for what? Had he dropped down among 
fools or fiends? All the real charges against him, accord- 
ing to Benny Burrows, who, he knew, had spoken the 
transparent truth, amounted to “swell,” “tenderfoot,” 
and related terms. 

By this time Philip was calm enough to see the trivial 
and ludicrous aspects of the affair. Sitting on a jagged 
shelf of rock, his pick beside him, a deep, boulder-strewn 
gulf yawning beneath him, he burst into a roar of 
laughter which was more than once repeated, and which 
made the echoes ring around him. 

But after the merriment had subsided, Philip fell into 
a train of serious reflections. The child’s — the mob’s 
— words were like a mirror held up to him, in which he 
could see clearly the impression he had made upon the 
people about him. No doubt he had held himself aloof 
from them. In his silence and misery he had never given 
a consideration to the point of view from which they 
might be regarding him. He had taken it for granted 
that they never wasted a thought on him. It appeared, 
however, that they fancied he was pluming himself on 
his superiority and bore himself with a hauteur and con- 
tempt not to be endured by free-born Americans, who 


THE SMALL BOY’S PART IN THE DRAMA 143 


regarded themselves the peers of any man dwelling on 
the earth! 

Philip had had his lesson. This was evident from his 
reflections as he gathered up his scant kit of tools that 
night. 

“ I have learned some things to-day, if I haven’t struck 
a pocket. But I have made up my mind to hold on 
awhile longer at Miner’s Best. It will go hard with me 
if I don’t succeed in making some friends among the 
rough crowd down below.” 

That very evening Philip went to call on Abner Baynes. 
He found him in the centre of a small cluster of square, 
low-roofed log-cabins near the borders of the expanding 
settlement. At his knock Baynes showed his lank length 
and profusion of hay-colored, un trimmed beard in the 
doorway. His face brightened when he recognized his 
guest. The men grasped each other’s hands. 

“Well, Baynes, I know all about it!” exclaimed 
Philip, as soon as he was inside the little, unpainted, 
plain-furnished room, which yet struck him as pervaded 
with a subtle atmosphere of home-living which more than 
atoned for the absence of all elegant belongings. 

“Who told you?” asked Baynes eagerly. 

“A very small boy who declared himself as Benny 
Burrows.” 

The elder man burst into a loud laugh. 

“That little rat! I should never ’a’ thought of him. 
I remember now he was standin’ round at the shaft, 
drinkin’ in all that was goin’ on. He ain’t much to 
look at, but he’s got the cutest brain under that big shock 
o’ curls of any boy of his age at Miner’s Best.” 

“It struck me in that light. It was through him I 
learned how you kept your promise, and how one man 


144 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


had the heart and pluck to stand up for me before an 
angry mob, when I was away in the foot-hills, not dream- 
ing a soul in the community had a grudge against me.” 

“They’re growin’ ashamed on’t already, and they’ll be 
more so, afore they get through. It was jest one of their 
blind prejudices. They’ve no more reason in ’em than 
a drove o’ wild colts, when they get started. But you 
won’t have any more trouble.” 

Philip’s face darkened; he set his jaw hard. Baynes 
got, for the first time, an inkling of the cause which had 
aroused the antagonism of some portions of the com- 
munity. 

“If this is a sample of a Western crowd’s hospitality, 
I hope I may be spared any further exhibition of it. If 
I escaped this time, I owe it all to you, Baynes, — you 
and Rachie.” 

All the young pride and haughtiness vanished with the 
last sentence, and Philip Fallowes’s smile was the kind 
which one remembers. 

Baynes’s face flushed with paternal pride. 

“ It was Rachie that did it, after all,” he said. “ That 
crowd was gettin’ ugly! But the sight of that child, and 
the way she spoke out, carried everything before it. 
Young man, it wasn’t for nothin’ you saved that little 
darter o’ mine ! ” 

“Nothing! She has made me her debtor to the last 
hour of my life. But what a happy stroke that was ! How 
did it come about — your bringing her upon the scene?” 

Baynes shuffled his feet. The man was sitting opposite 
his guest in a wooden, flag-bottomed chair. Philip occu- 
pied the seat of state, the arms and back of which were 
covered with vari-colored patchwork. 

“ It all came upon me suddent, ” he said, bending for- 


THE SMALL BOY’S PART IN THE DRAMA 145 


ward and clasping his big-knuckled hands around his 
knee. “One of the neighbors bust in and shouted, 
‘They’re goin’ to have a big row over to Good-Luck 
shaft! They’re gettin’ ready to run out that young snob 
that’s been round here takin’ on big airs and carryin’ 
himself above common folks! He’s got to be taken 
down a peg. Make haste, or you’ll lose the fun ! ’ 

“ I knew at once what was up. I sprang to my feet. 
‘Now, Abner Baynes,’ I said, ‘here’s your chance! 
You’ve got to keep your promise to that young man.’ 

“ For a second or two I didn’t know which way to turn. 
Then it all came in a flash. I snatched up Rachie, and 
called to her mother not to stop for life or death. As 
we hurried on, I told Rachie what she was to say and 
charged her mother to keep her repeatin’ it and never 
mind what I was doin’.” 

At that instant there was a gurgle of childish laughter 
in an adjoining room. All the time they had been talk- 
ing, Philip had heard through the thin board partition 
sounds which suggested hasty toilet preparations. He 
saw now, standing in the door, a little square face with 
the saucy nose and the merry, hazel eyes. The cheeks 
were a little redder with the scrubbing they had under- 
gone, and the thick rings of hair about the forehead a 
little less riotous than usual. 

As Rachie caught sight of Philip, she gave a scream 
of childish delight, bounded across the room, and fairly 
fell against him. 

“ I said it wight ! I said it wight ! ” she burst out 
eagerly. 

“ I know you did. You were the bravest little girl in 
the world, Rachie, to make that speech before the big 
crowd of men, and save me from being run out.” 


146 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

He had lifted her in his arms by this time. 

“ It was cos you dragged me out of the water that day. 
It was so black and cold ! ” She shuddered and clung to 
him. 

At that instant Mrs. Baynes appeared on the scene in 
her newest gown. The small, thin woman had, at the 
moment, a glow in her faded eyes, on her sallow cheek, 
which faintly recalled her girlish prettiness. She gave 
her hand to Philip. 

“ I want to thank you — ” her voice broke. 

Philip helped her out quickly. “ It is I, Mrs. Baynes, 
who should do the thanking first and most.” 

That evening in the log-cabin was a happy one to 
Philip — the first he had known since life had all changed 
for him. Rachie snuggled up and babbled to him in her 
pretty child-fashion. Mrs. Baynes did her best in honor 
of the occasion. She had an inherited culinary faculty 
which triumphed over the limitations of her larder; she 
brought out her spicy soft-gingerbread and served coffee 
which seemed to the guest more delicious than any which 
the daintiest china had ever carried to his lips. 

They sat long round the small pine table — hosts and 
guest getting better acquainted. Baynes’s shrewd, prac- 
tical remarks struck Philip. 

“You mustn’t size up Miner’s Rest,” he said in his 
slow, high-keyed voice, “by this fust rough sample 
you’ve had of it. I don’t want to picter things better 
than they be; but there’s fellers — a good many of ’em, 
too — with kind hearts and helpin’ hands in this com- 
munity. They ain’t polished on the surface, and this 
kind of life won’t be likely to make ’em more so; but 
you’ll find what I say is true, if you jest wait and don’t 
expect too much, and learn to take ’em on the right side, 


THE SMALL BOY’S PART IN THE DRAMA 147 


and they in turn get to know you better. There’s rogues 
and rascals — plenty on ’em — in this settlement. That 
crowd at the shaft was about the roughest of the lot 
here; but they had a better side, and showed it when my 
little girl spoke up to ’em.” He glanced tenderly at 
Kachie. 

That night Philip went away with a light heart. He 
knew there was one roof at Miner’s Eest under which 
his name would always be spoken with grateful affection. 
The thought seemed to give a fresh atmosphere, a kind 
of sacredness, to this new, rough world. He had been 
gaining some new wisdom on the mountain ledges and 
in the miner’s cabin that day. 


148 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XIV 

AT MINERS REST 

Philip Fallowes had been for more than a year at 
Miner’s Rest. By this time he had ceased to regret his 
desperate dash for the wild mining regions. He had, 
indeed, come to regard that as probably the wisest course 
he could have taken ; he had, in short, adapted himself, in 
a large degree, to the conditions of Rocky Mountain life 
in a remote and newly opened region. 

It goes without saying that this change could not have 
been effected without many struggles and revulsions of 
feeling — especially in its earlier stages. The old regrets 
and depressions would sometimes sweep upon his spirit, 
and hope, energy, aspiration, would grow faint and slack 
for a while. When hankerings for the old life and asso- 
ciations returned, he would find the rude existence, the 
coarse habits, the rough speech of the people about him, 
almost unendurable. But as the months passed, these 
feelings recurred less frequently and with less intensity. 

Nothing like the drama at the shaft had ever repeated 
itself. The leaders themselves did not now enjoy the 
recollection of it. The social sentiments of Miner’s Rest 
toward Philip Fallowes had undergone a vast change — 
no greater, however, than his own toward the people and 
the place. The young man and the young community 
had grown to understand each other better. His real char- 


AT MINER’S REST 


149 


acter had told with the shrewd, impulsive, keenly observ- 
ant people. He grew familiar with them; learned the 
Western chaff and slang — sometimes caught himself at 
it with a grimace, half humorous, half horrified ; joked 
with his companions or did them a good turn, when the | 
occasion offered. 

Of course he blundered and made frequent mistakes — 
this youth of twenty three or four thrown absolutely on 
his own wits, in such novel circumstances. But he grew 
wiser with experience. Then what a new school of human 
nature it was to Philip Fallowes ! What lessons those 
hard, rough-tongued, flannel-shirted miners taught the 
youth straight from the shades of his University ! 
As he came to know them better, what keen wits, what 
true hearts, what noble souls, he found among them ! 
Of course there was the other side ! Some of the vilest 
characters of the world are always certain to drift into 
a young mining community. Philip rode and jested with 
men who, he had no doubt, would not hesitate to shoot 
him if they thought he had money enough to make it 
worth their while. 

It was a new experience • — probably a very wholesome 
one for him — to learn how little a man, possessed of 
youth and health, really needed to have a very comfort- 
able time in this world ! He could sleep just as well in 
his clay-chinked, unplastered cabin as he could in his 
elegant apartments at Denver. Philip had been wise 
enough to secure this vacant, low-roomed dwelling near 
the borders of the settlement and on the way to the foot- 
hills. It meant for him quiet, independence, and freedom 
from a world of unpleasant companionships. 

His own necessities were a constant spur to action ; he 
could not afford to be fastidious. Sometimes he did not 


150 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


know where the next day’s meals would come from. It 
was natural, with his inexperience, he should have taken 
it for granted that, once among the mountains, he could 
easily earn enough to defray his much-reduced expenses. 
At first he had staked his claims and pommelled steadily 
at the rocks. When these did not prove productive, he 
turned his hand to anything that offered. He was, for a 
month, foreman of the Fool’s Paradise Mines, three miles 
from the settlement, and “ shift boss ” for a fortnight at 
the Big Bock. In one instance, under financial pressure, 
he took a man’s place for two days at the shaft, and 
turned the crank which brought up the buckets of ore. 

“ I could not get much lower down than this ! ” he said 
to himself with a grim smile as he took his place at the 
new post. But his strong sense of the humorous side of 
the situation soon superseded all other feelings. 

“ How his classmates of a year ago would stare to see 
him now ! ” He broke into a loud laugh. “ But I am 
just as much of a man here — if not more so — than I 
was last year lounging with you under the elms ! ” fol- 
lowed the next thought, sane and self-respecting. 

Then there was a shout down the shaft. A fresh 
bucket of ore came up, and Philip had to be spry ; and 
when night came he was too tired for memories ; he flung 
himself down on his hard bed in the cabin, and slept the 
sound, delicious sleep of healthy young manhood and 
daily labor. 

Of course by this time, he was frequently talked over 
at the saloons. Some echo of the old dislike and fancied 
superiority occasionally cropped out, but those who knew 
him best swore that young Fallowes “ was an all-round 
good feller, and all that talk about his feelin’ so tremen- 
dous sot up, and better than the next one, was gammon ! 


AT MINER’S REST 


151 


Of course he fought shy when it came to the gamblin’ 
and drinkin’ an’ wuss ; but he was devilish quick with 
his jokes and stories, and these were al’ays so clean a 
man could go straight hum and repeat ’em to his wife 
and darters.” 

Young Eallowes could not be in the atmosphere of 
such a place — hear the talk which constantly gravitated 
to one theme, which lent a glowing possibility to every day 
— without yielding more or less to its contagion. Each 
morning when he seized his pick and set off for the day’s 
prospecting in some fresh field, he would chink the few 
silver pieces in his pocket as he reflected there was a 
chance — among ten thousand, perhaps — that he might 
return at night, having struck a true vein, a rich man ! 

All the camps rang the changes on stories of this sort. 
They give life in the Eocky Mountains the element of 
surprise, of adventure, of mystery. They touch the im- 
agination with a kind of Aladdin glitter and romance. 
This possibility of acquiring, in some lucky moment, a 
grand fortune has an immense power to carry the miner 
lightly over all the privations and hardships of his life. 

No doubt it was this possibility which had more than 
once induced Philip to abandon his solitary efforts and 
join a party who were working some abandoned claims 
in gulches far up in the mountains. 

He had a tough experience each time. It blistered 
his hands and hardened his muscles. They reached 
“ pay dirt ” for a while, but the yield was not sufficient 
to encourage them in continuing the work. The party 
dispersed to more alluring quarters. Philip’s share in 
the yield helped him over a financial crisis in his affairs. 


152 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XV 

THE GIRL BY THE FARTHER SEA 

From the door of his cabin Philip commanded an 
unbroken view of the Great Eange. As he lived in its 
presence, he grew into closer sympathy and companion- 
ship with it. The mountains became to him symbols of 
something deeper and diviner than themselves. They 
were to him a world of alluring mystery, of inviolable 
calm, of elemental strength. He knew the awful secrets 
of their lonely precipices, their savage wildernesses, 
their yawning abysses; but he knew also the places 
where Nature had clothed all the barrenness with her 
robes of transcendent loveliness; knew where the canons 
broke into dazzling miracles of mountain bloom and 
color, where the creeks shouted their own wild idyls as 
they trailed and tumbled over the great rocky stairways. 

But with his youth and inexperience, plunged suddenly 
into a new world of novel scenes and excitements, with 
his imagination susceptible and responsive, with young 
manhood virile and throbbing in every fibre of his being, 
Philip Fallowes needed at this time an influence more 
distinct and penetrating than that of nature, though at 
her best and noblest, about his life. 

He found this — perhaps it would be truer to say he 
made it — in the thought of that young girl, hardly out 
of her childhood, whom he had met so accidentally and 


THE GIRL BY THE FARTHER SEA 


153 


briefly, and with whom he had walked and talked for a 
couple of evenings on the piazza of Amoury Boost. 

But he was always conscious that at the most critical 
moment of his life, in the utmost strain of soul and flesh, 
the thought of her young charm and innocence, of her 
girlhood’s aspirations and ideals, half unconsciously re- 
vealed to him, of something nameless in herself which 
differentiated and set her apart from all young girls he 
had ever known, had come back with such constraining 
power and vividness that it had saved him. 

Yet his regard for her now was very sane and manly. 
He had put all that young romance — or thought he had 
— sternly behind him ; he was rather jealously at guard 
lest any thought or feeling should seem to lower that 
ideal memory in which he held her. 

He never allowed himself to call Dorothy Draycott his 
“ guardian angel,” the “star of his life,” or any of those 
phrases worn threadbare by sentimental lovers ; he kept 
all young dreams and fancies from roaming afield in that 
direction. I think he would have told himself at this 
time, that if any other man had won her, the fact could 
make no difference with him; it could not affect his con- 
sciousness of what she had been, what she had done for 
him. 

All the same, in his House of Life there was a room 
set apart and sacred, and a shrine was there, and a young 
girl’s face smiled in it. 

Philip Fallowes was not longing at this time to be 
with Dorothy Draycott; he was striving to live his life 
bravely, manfully, nobly, without her. 

There were days — weeks, perhaps — when he hardly 
thought of her. His life was full of all sorts of practical 
interests and activities. The air of the West, the exam- 


154 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


pies about him, the very amplitude of horizon, kindled 
all his energies, spurred him to incessant activities during 
the days, and when the nights came, they brought the 
sound, delicious slumber which opens to the sleeper the 
gates of no dreamland. 

But, in spite of all this, and of his slight personal 
acquaintance with her, Dorothy Draycott was no mythi- 
cal creature to Philip Fallowes. She was a real entity, 
a very much alive girl, into the. quality of whose young 
nature his insight had, at the beginning, penetrated sure 
and deep. His later knowledge of her was derived from 
a source no less intimate than that of Tom Draycott 
himself. In the familiar intercourse of their last under- 
graduate years, Bed Knolls and the life there was always 
cbming up in Tom’s talk. That extremely clever youth 
never suspected how adroitly he was led to dilate on this 
theme. Of course Dorothy’s name constantly recurred 
in Tom’s reminiscences; he related endless stories of 
their childhood. The frolics, the pleasures, the foolish 
quarrels, which seemed for the moment so serious, and 
which ended in such swift reconciliations, all made a 
series of varied, perfectly fascinating pictures to Philip’s 
eager interest. Then revelations followed of a later 
time, when life was in the first blush of manhood and 
womanhood, and all these were enfolded in the wonder- 
ful, tender, fragrant, home atmosphere of Bed Knolls. 

One night Philip, in the family’s absence, had gone 
over to dine with his friend. A March rain-storm had 
raged suddenly in the air. The winds roared like 
trumpets that call to battle; the rain drove in rattling 
sheets against the windows. 

Of course Draycott would not allow his friend to leave 
the house that night, and they had one of those long 


THE GIRL BY THE FARTHER SEA 


155 


evenings together which are apt to inspire mutual con- 
fidences. As the storm held its way, it started into 
vivid life that other storm, which would never be laid 
fast asleep in Tom Draycott’s memory. Before he quite 
knew what he was doing, he was talking about it; and, 
once begun, he could not stop. That night Philip 
learned all about the sail in Boston harbor; the hurri- 
cane from which the two classmates had barely escaped 
with their lives, and all Tom’s remorseful agony when 
he returned home and found what those hours had meant 
for his sister. 

In these ways she came back to Philip Pallowes, — 
the best and most precious thing he had brought out of 
his past to his pioneer life in the Bocky Mountains. 

But a single mastery of one’s lower self does not mean 
that one will always be strong; that he will hold himself 
continuously to the level of his highest purpose and 
loftiest endeavor. 

Certainly Philip Fallowes was conscious frequently of 
the downward drag of mood and flesh. At such moments 
the saloons — even the bar and the gambling-table — 
attracted the sensuous side of his nature, and the picture 
was drawn in alluring contrast against a lonely cabin, 
nearly a mile away on the edge of Miner’s Best. 

Then a pair of brown eyes, like no other eyes in the 
world, which had shone for him first one summer morn- 
ing in a dim, ancient pine wood, would rise up, and 
Philip would turn sharply on his heel. 

I am not seeking to paint for you, my reader, any 
flawless hero of romance. If such beings could exist, 
Philip Fallowes was not one of them; if his ideal was 
high, he often stood, as all human beings must, rebuked 
and convicted before it; but when all this has been said, 


156 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT'S TO-MORROWS 

it still remained true that his life was as unsullied at 
Miners Rest as Dorothy Draycott’s at Red Knolls. 

If this seems a light thing to say, it was not a light 
thing to him who lived it, amid the habits, the environ- 
ments, and in the moral atmosphere of a mountain min- 
ing-camp, with tawdry, brazen women seeking to beguile 
the handsome youth, — lived it amid frequent contact 
with hardened and vicious men, to whom all that was 
pure and noble in him was an offence and a rebuke. 


SOME SMALL HAPPENINGS 


157 


XYI 

SOME SMALL HAPPENINGS 

Young Fallowes visited the Bayneses’ oftener than he 
did anybody else at Miner’s Best. No other place in the 
settlement held for him that home atmosphere he found 
when he crossed the door of their cabin. Bachie would 
run, shrieking with delight, whenever the tall, broad- 
chested figure and the strong, handsome, brown bearded 
face appeared in the doorway. The black rings would 
lie in pretty, tangled confusion about the roguish little 
face, with its red cheeks and bit of saucy nose. Her 
mother’s faded eyes would light up with pleasure as she 
said, with a little air and tone of apology : 

“ If we’d only known you was cornin’, Mr. Fallowes, 
Bachie’s hair should have been combed and she should 
have had on her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ frock.” 

And Philip would answer in his kindly way, and yet 
with that indescribable air which almost struck Mrs. 
Baynes dumb betwixt diffidence and admiration : 

ei I beg you will not mind, Mrs. Baynes. I like Bachie 
best just as she is; I have come around to see if you can 
spare her for an hour or two’s ride. My bronco, at the 
door, is a sure-footed little beast.” 

A few minutes later the two — Bachie in her new hat, 
sitting in front of Philip Fallowes and lifted to a seventh 
heaven of happiness — started for the canons, the mother 


158 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 

watching them from the front door, a pleased smile on 
her faded face. 

Philip was very fond of Eachie. She whisked her 
little black-ringed head round to him every few moments 
for a smile, and kept up a strain of soft infantile prat- 
tle, with little drawings of breath and merry breaks of 
laughter. They entered a canon, — a green, flowery nook, 
with a bit of creek which sang and dimpled, and was 
gone one moment and came to light the next, among the 
boulders. The bronco’s clumsy feet crushed the mats of 
yellow and white bloom as they rode. 

“ I’m glad we corned here, you and I and the bronco, 
Mr. Fallowes,” said Eachie, and her voice had the thin, 
lisping quality of early childhood. “I should like to 
come every day.” 

“ I am afraid in that case we should grow tired of it, 
Eachie. If we see things every day, they grow, after 
a while, an old story.” 

“Not things you love. I never get tired of Nanny — 
she’s my doll, you know; I want to see her ever so many 
times every day. I shouldn’t never get tired of you , 
neither.” 

“Ah, but you can’t be sure of that.” 

“Oh, yes, I can! It’s cos I love you very much, Mr. 
Fallowes.” 

She whisked her little head around again, and the 
merry eyes danced as she looked him in the face while 
she made this frank avowal. 

“ It is a very long time since anybody said those words 
to me.” 

The child could not formulate, but she distinctly felt, 
the tone of sadness which crept into his voice. It drew 
out some more emphatic assertion of feeling on her part. 


SOME SMALL HAPPENINGS 


159 


“ I can’t tell you how much, but if I had a measure, it 
would reach away and away to the stars.” 

“ Dear me ! How delightful ! ” 

“But it never could reach quite so far, you know. 
Johnnie Willis has a kite; he can make it go up ever 
and ever so high, till you can’t see it, but he says it 
never touches the stars.” 

“ Johnnie is right. But you and I wouldn’t want to 
measure love in that way. It is something to be felt, 
not seen. You can understand that?” 

The little restless head was still a minute or two, as 
she gravely pondered the question. Then it turned 
quickly around, with a gleam of assenting intelligence 
in her eyes. 

Philip wondered whether it was the rudimentary 
coquette which made her say now, glancing up at him 
out of the corners of her eyes : 

“I want to know how much you love me, now?” 

“ Oh, very much indeed ! ” 

“But jest how much?” 

“Well — let me see! I love you better than any little 
girl in the world, my Rachie,” and he drew her closer 
to him. 

She gave a long sigh of ineffable content. Then, with 
a young child’s swift change of mood, she cried out: 

“Oh, do you see the little bird on that red flower? 
There! He’s flyin’ off now.” 

Philip drew his rein; he was off the bronco in a 
moment. The flower to which Rachie had pointed was 
a fiery-scarlet painter’s brush in the midst of tall spikes 
of blue larkspur. The child’s eyes sparkled as he placed 
the gay blossom in her hands. 

This special ride occurred about a year after the scene 


160 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


at the shaft. There were a good many others before and 
afterward. They gave Philip as much pleasure as they 
did Rachie. The childish freshness, the pretty, guileless 
talk, made a warmth about his own heart ; and the supper 
under the pine roof, with which it closed, and at which 
Mrs. Baynes accomplished wonders with slender mate- 
rials, was a happy affair for all concerned. 

Then there was Benny Burrows. That small boy, with 
his old-man’s gravity and his shrewd little brain under 
his seven-years-old curls, was as devoted to Philip — in 
a different way — as Rachie Baynes herself. 

Events proved, too, that it had been the most fortunate 
hour of his life when he threw down his tin trumpet and 
started off to confront young Fallowes as he came in 
sight. 

The next time they met, Philip took the initiative. 

“Well, Benny Burrows, have you by this time made 
up your mind regarding me?” 

“Yes, I have!” prompt and pugnacious. Benny had 
rushed from the cabin on catching sight of Philip. 

“What is it, then?” 

“ You ain’t no tenderfoot nor big, horrid swell, and I’ll 
give the first boy who says you be, a big thrashing if he 
is twice as tall as me! ” 

The boy clenched his grimed hands. A brick-red 
flushed through his tan. 

“0 Benny, I wouldn’t try that on!” laughing to 
himself. “ You couldn’t change a boy by thrashing him ; 
he would have his own opinion all the same when you 
got through. I am sure so bright a boy as you must see 
that.” 

The round head went down; the bare toes were the 
color of the sand they wriggled in. Philip watched 


SOME SMALL HAPPENINGS 


161 


silently the signs of the mental process going on in the 
childish brain. At last the result articulated itself. 

“Yes, I see. But it don’t make no diff’runce, for all 
that.” 

“Why doesn’t it?” 

“Because” — Benny’s voice, when he was in earnest, 
always sounded as though he had a cold — “you don’t 
care about his changin’ his opinions, but it does you good 
to thrash a feller when you’re all-fired mad at him.” 

Here was human nature — in small ! Philip could 
not stay to discuss the ethics of the question. Benny 
put his hard little hand in his friend’s palm, and the two 
walked some distance together. This afterward became 
their habit. 

The friendship thus inaugurated grew into intimacy. 
Benny learned the way to Philip’s cabin, and it soon 
became to him the pleasantest place in the world. His 
own home was not all that could be desired; he had a 
step-mother much burdened with cares for her own small 
brood. 

Philip resolved that his young friend, with a reasoning 
faculty and a native shrewdness which seemed almost 
preternatural in one of his years, should have his chance. 
He sent him to the only child’s school at Miner’s Best. 
The fact that he had inspired an interest in such high 
quarters had the natural result. Benny’s importance 
and comfort were much advanced in his own household. 


162 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XVII 

IN ASPEN HOLLOW 

It happened — that which I am about to relate — after 
Philip Fallowes had been nearly a year and a half at 
Miner’s Kest. He had resolved to try his luck that day 
in a new locality, a higher altitude than he had yet 
attempted, but one where men had, within a few weeks, 
struck rich veins among the ragged ravines and gullies. 

He started off in the coolness before sunrise ; he drank 
great draughts of that dry, delicious Colorado air. 
“ What an infinite joy it was just to live and breathe in 
this world — under such conditions, of course! Why 
could not all humanity, struggling, wearied, toiling, on 
the levels, leave the long, fool’s chase and come up to 
the mountains and breathe this air and rejoice in this 
freedom?” 

These questions, and a host of others, crowded his 
thoughts as he made his upward way. The red lilies 
shone thick, like kindling fires ; the columbine trailed its 
gold among the ferns — a part of that gorgeous tapestry 
which nature had flung over her broken, lower stairways 
that led far away to beetling precipices and stony silences. 

And to Philip Fallowes, responsive to the buoyant, 
exhilarating air, to the expanding horizons, any surprise, 
any good fortune, seemed possible. He did not mind 
the climb, which cost him hours j he worked with a will 


IN ASPEN HOLLOW 


163 


that day ; he pounded the rocks, he picked the crevices. 
When he returned at night, he was no richer for climb 
or toil, but something of the glad, uplifting mood of the 
morning stayed with him ; he could not feel disheartened ; 
he found himself again and again breaking into snatches 
of old Harvard songs. 

But he was glad to take the shortest cut to his cabin. 
This led by a newly opened trail through Aspen Hollow, 
a wide, shallow depression on the last hill-slope. The 
scant growths of trees to which the place owed its name 
made a golden glow of leafage against the September 
sky. Philip, tired as he was, paused a moment to admire 
the color. 

His return glance was caught by a large object lying 
just on the edge of the steep slant of trail he was aboijt 
to descend. Philip approached it curiously. As he 
drew near, the thing resolved itself into the shape of a 
human figure. It lay motionless as the dead. A much- 
worn cap had fallen over the face. The clothes — a 
miner’s garb — were dingy and ragged. The whole spec- 
tacle gave one an impression of helplessness, misery, and 
degradation. 

The figure was a tall one, stretched at full length on 
its back. Philip bent down and softly removed the cap. 
The dusk was beginning to deepen now, but he recog- 
nized the face with a glance. Everybody at Miner’s Rest 
knew the ragged, dust-colored beard, the pallid, yellow- 
ish skin, the pale, watery eyes, the loose-jointed figure, 
with the slow, uncertain gait. The man had preceded 
Philip some time at the settlement. If he had ever 
inclined to leave it, he was too broken-down in energy 
and ambition to make the necessary effort. The chief 
business of his life was to get as many drinks as he could ; 


164 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT S TO-MORROWS 


he succeeded so well that on most days he was pretty 
thoroughly intoxicated; he worked in the mines inter- 
mittently; he spent most of his days hanging around the 
saloons, his hands in his pockets, listening to the talk 
with a feeble smile, always ready to accept a dram, — a 
mere wreck of manhood, sinking by steady gradations 
to his grave. 

The miners made him the butt of their jokes and wit- 
ticisms. Caleb Crafts — they were much in the habit 
of calling him Cale in the saloons, the mining parlance 
always inclining to ellipses — was not pugnacious, and 
took all the jokes and rough satire with a kind of 
tolerant good-nature. 

When Philip had first caught sight of the man, he had 
regarded him as only one more piece of human driftwood 
caught at Miner’s Rest. 

Once or twice, however, as the paths of the two had 
crossed, or Crafts had spoken in Philip’s hearing, it had 
struck him that the man showed, through all his moral 
and physical lapse, some signs of better early training 
than many of his associates. 

Occasionally, too, he had caught the dulled eyes re- 
garding him with a gleam of interest, as though some 
memory or association had stirred in his muddled brain. 
But the two had never exchanged a word. 

Philip was strongly inclined to the opinion that the 
man was dead, — apoplexy or heart-failure, the sequence, 
no doubt, of persistent drams. 

He fingered the bony hand lying on the chest. It was 
limp, but scarcely felt like that of a dead man. He 
forced himself to push up the ragged sleeve and feel the 
pulse. There was a feeble, irregular throb. 

Young Fallowes straightened himself and surveyed the 


IN ASPEN HOLLOW 


165 


scene before him with feelings about equally balanced 
between pity and disgust. 

“ What a miserable sight it was ! What use was there 
in carrying about a carcass like that, when the sole 
object of the man who inhabited it was to get all the 
liquor he could guzzle down! Whose business was it, 
anyhow, to try and bring him back to the life he had 
made such a mess of? His old cronies down there in 
the saloons, just beginning their evening carouse, would 
probably settle the matter in short order. * Let the old 
toper hustle for himself! If he can sleep off his spree 
up there on the rocks, nobody is goin’ to prevent. If he 
never comes out of it, it’ll be the best thing that could 
happen to him.’ ” 

Philip Fallowes, standing there in the dusk above that 
supine figure, was wearied with the day’s tramp and toil. 
Every clean instinct of his soul and body recoiled at the 
spectacle before him. 

“There was nothing he could do for that man.” 

With this conclusion he turned on his heel and hurried 
out of the hollow. 

Before he reached his cabin, however, other thoughts 
had followed swiftly. 

“ After all, the thing stretched out on the trail was a 
human being. That meant a soul somewhere behind, 
beyond, all the debasement and misery.” 

Then the curious, wistful glances with which Caleb 
Crafts had several times regarded him came up afresh. 
He moved uneasily; he wished he were not so deadly 
tired; he wondered if he should feel quite comfortable 
if he learned later that the feeble life had flickered out 
in the cold and silence up there on the stones. “ There 
might be a touch of frost at midnight. Would he like 


166 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


to remember he had turned and passed by, when it was 
possibly a question of life or death for a man?” 

Then, suddenly, Philip Fallowes was revolving some- 
thing else. 

“What would she think, what would she say, if she 
were here at this moment? ” 

Less than half an hour later, Fallowes might have 
been seen trundling a wheelbarrow up the slant of trail 
that led almost to his cabin door. In the deepening 
twilight, in the rough, lonely way, nobody was likely to 
observe him. The men to whom his errand would have 
been a puzzling problem, a subject of infinite jest, were 
at that hour in the saloons, engrossed in faro and roulette. 

The figure still lay supine and motionless when he 
reached it. It was vYell for Fallowes that the humorous 
aspects of the situation appealed to him strongly now. 

“ You are not a hilarious or an odoriferous object, Caleb 
Crafts,” he accosted the unconscious figure. “I should 
never, for my own part, have craved this sort of prox- 
imity, but the thing has come in my way, and I am not 
going to shirk it.” 

He raised the tall, limp form in his strong, young arms, 
placed it on the wheelbarrow as comfortably as the limi- 
tations admitted, drew a long breath of relief, and seized 
the handles of the vehicle. Nothing had seen — nothing 
but the stars flocking to their early night-watches above 
the foot-hills. 

The transfer was safely accomplished. Philip stag- 
gered with his burden across the threshold of his cabin, 
laid it on his own bed, wrapped it in a warm blanket, 
snatched another for himself, and set out at once for the 
pine coppice, where he had beforehand made up his mind 
to sleep. 


IN ASPEN HOLLOW 


167 


This part of his programme had not cost him the least 
sacrifice. He would have liked to pass many of his 
nights in that glorious air, under those cloudless skies, 
if some inherited instinct had not made him feel that a 
man with a roof and a bunk had no right to affront the 
habits of civilization by adopting those of savagery. 
But he was always ready for an excuse to exchange his 
own bed for the brown, fragrant one nature spread for 
him on her pine needles. 

The coppice was only about three minutes’ walk from 
the cabin. He threw himself down under the tall, thick 
trees, gathered his blanket about him, vaguely wondered 
whether there was, in all the Rocky Mountains, a man 
so tired as himself, before he dropped into an abyss of 
dreamless slumber which lasted for eight hours. 

When he awoke, the sun was kindling in the tops of the 
tall pines over his head; the air was full of the splendid 
tonic of the Colorado sunrise. For a moment, however, 
everything was steeped in quiet, as though nature had. 
paused in breathless prayer amid the dews and fragrance 
of her breaking day. 

Philip sat up after his bath of delicious sleep, and felt 
himself a part of the morning’s strength and joy. His 
vision was crowded for a moment by glimpses between 
the great pine boles of jagged lines and broken contours, 
of dark patches of firs and cedars, and rounding curves 
of foot-hills. Then, with a start and smothered cry, he 
bounded to his feet. He had remembered Caleb Crafts, 
and why he had been sleeping under the pines that night. 

When he reached his cabin, he found his guest in the 
attitude in which he had left him. There could be no 
question now that the man was alive and sleeping off his 
debauch amid loud snores. 


168 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

Philip stood still and gazed on him with conflicting 
feelings; he had little doubt that loud breathing would 
have been silenced forever if the man had been left 
unsheltered on the trail through the night; he wondered 
whether he had done him a service to save so miserable 
a life. Then he reflected, that was, after all, none of 
his business. 

The sunrise struck through the cabin window and 
slanted across the face of the slumbering man. Philip 
drew closer and bent over it. In the revealing light he 
tried to interpret what the face was originally intended 
to express, what it might have been before drink had 
dulled and debased it. The ragged line of thick, light 
hair stood stiffly up from a well-formed forehead. The 
skin had the yellow, sickly hue of prolonged dissipation. 
The features were gaunt; the lower portion of the face 
was partly concealed by a light, yellowish, much- 
neglected beard. The gazer detected no cruel, vicious 
lines in the weak, sad, defeated face. He could imagine 
it had been a pleasant, even an attractive one, in its 
youth. But the later autobiography was writ so large 
that all might read. 

Philip placed a chair and fresh water by the bedside. 
Should Crafts, he reflected, awake during his absence, 
he would be too dazed and weak to leave the cabin. 
With his own appetite clamorous by this time, he set off 
for breakfast. 


THE SOUL OF A MAN 


169 


XVIII 

THE SOUL OF A MAN 

Philip was unable to return before noon. A glance 
showed him that his lodger had not left. He was not 
certain whether to be glad or sorry. A little further 
investigation made it evident that the man had been 
awake not long before. He had quaffed deep draughts 
from the pitcher and made an effort to bathe his face ; he 
was now in a natural slumber. 

Philip moved on to the next room and set about start- 
ing a fire; he had often blessed his stars that his boy’s 
experience at fishing and camping in the woods had 
taught him the secret of making delicious coffee and 
broiling steak and game to a nicety. This skill, com- 
bined with various recent culinary experiments, made 
him largely independent of the indigestible fare at the 
refectories of Miner’s Rest. 

After he had started the fire, he set about further 
preparations for a meal, whistling low and intermittently, 
thinking all the time of his strange lodger. 

There was nothing to do but wait on events. 

The thought had just crossed his mind, when he caught 
a sound, a stir, in the next room. He turned to the door 
and met the gaze of Crafts. There was a look of intelli- 
gence in the man’s eyes. 

Philip came toward the bed. “ Well, sir, judging from 


170 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


the length of your nap, you must be pretty thoroughly 
rested by this time.” 

There was a contagious quality in this cheery, off- 
hand address. 

It was followed by a prolonged silence, during which 
Crafts kept staring curiously at the strong, handsome 
young face above him. 

At last he asked, in a slow, bewildered voice : 

“What place is this?” 

“It is my palace — cabin — den, or several other 
names you may fancy to call it.” 

“How did I get here?” 

“Allow me to take my turn at the questioning. Do 
you know who I am?” 

“Yes; I know that,” stirring a little. “You’re that 
young Fallowes who the fellers used to say was a leetle 
too high-toned for this climate.” 

Philip lifted his eyebrows. “ I understand those were 
the first impressions of Miner’s Eest regarding me. Let 
us hope it may have reason to change them.” 

Crafts made no sign, whether of assent or dissent, to 
this remark. 

“I want to know how I came here.” 

He returned to his first question with a kind of dogged 
insistence. 

“ Well, then, if nothing short of the bare statement is 
going to satisfy you, I brought you here.” 

“ You brought me here?” 

“Precisely.” 

“How did you do it?” 

“ In the only vehicle of which I am at this time the 
happy possessor.” 

“What was that?” 


THE SOUL OF A MAN 


171 


“ A wheelbarrow.” 

“You brought me here — your own self — on a wheel- 
barrer?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where did you find me?” 

“ What an enormous instinct you must have for cross- 
questioning a witness ! You were a quarter of a mile 
above here, on the new trail which leads down into 
Aspen Hollow, where I found you.” 

“Oh, yes! I remember now.” Crafts spoke half to 
himself, with a kind of thin, high-pitched drawl. “I’d 
had some stiff drinks at Mullins’. The fellers from 
Gordon’s mine had come down flush from their last find 
and treated all round — straight whiskey. I’d set out 
to go home — must have mistook the trail and gone all 
to pieces when I started back. I was clean done for — 
dead drunk ! ” 

He addressed himself again to Philip. 

“ There could be no question about that ! ” 

“And you happened to be passin’ by and found me 
lyin’ there.” 

“.You seem perfectly acquainted with the facts.” 

“How did you come there?” 

“ I was on my way down from Ragged Ledge. I had 
been prospecting round there all day.” 

“Was you all alone?” 

“All alone.” 

“ And you got your wheelbarrer, trundled it up the trail, 
heaved me up and aboard, and brought me down here?” 

“That’s it again, precisely.” 

“I must have been a powerful heavy load.” 

“ My muscles are pretty well seasoned by this time. 
There was no special difficulty in handling you.” 


172 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


A pause ensued. Crafts kept his steady stare on 
Philip and rubbed his gaunt hands with a faint nervous 
movement. At last he said, with a little change of tone, 
“What did you do all that for?” 

“What did I do it all for? ” Philip echoed the words 
half to himself. “I thought you would, in all proba- 
bility, be dead before morning, if I left you to lie all 
night on the trail.” 

“ That was nothin’ to you — jest a poor dog stretched 
there on the trail, dead drunk! ” 

“Well, that is your way of putting it. Mine was 
somewhat different.” 

“ That’s jest what I’m cur’us to know — the diff’runce.” 

“I said to myself: ‘There lies a man, and that means 
a human soul, if he has done his best to shame and spoil 
it.’ So I acted promptly. That is about all there is of 
it, Crafts. 1 must see about that coffee.” 

Philip hurried from the room, not sorry for an excuse 
to end the conversation. 

Less than two minutes later, he heard a loud groan, 
followed by a wrenching sob. He stepped quickly to 
the door. A sight met his eyes which he will never for- 
get. Crafts was sitting up in bed, his big, bony fingers 
locked together on the blanket, while great tears were 
streaming down his haggard cheeks. He did not attempt 
to wipe them off; his whole frame shook and writhed 
helplessly under the storm of sobs, which indicated some 
sudden moral and physical upheaval in the man’s nature. 

The sight of the tall, haggard figure swaying back and 
forth in the clutch of overpowering emotions, would have 
struck a gazer either on its ludicrous or pathetic side. 
The latter appealed at once to young Fallowes, standing 
in the doorway surveying his guest, who was either 


THE SOUL OF A MAN 


173 


unaware of, or indifferent to, his presence. Indeed, the 
feeling with which one regards such a scene is pretty- 
certain to be a test of character. Any man, too, is likely 
to take a deeper interest in another whose life he has 
just saved. Philip turned away and came back shortly 
with a big bowl of strong coffee, whose steaming fragrance 
filled the cabin. 

“Come, Crafts,” rang out the strong, manly tones, “it 
won’t do to go on like this. Don’t you know it will 
break you all up, man?” 

Caleb’s shaking hands reached eagerly for the bowl. 
He drained the contents in a few moments. Then he 
struck his sleeve across his eyes, drawing deep, sobbing 
breaths, while the stimulus of the hot coffee penetrated 
every fibre of his system. 

“It ain’t for myself; it’s what you did for me; it’s 
what you did /” he exclaimed, half apologetically, and 
with an awkward gesture that yet had a certain pathetic 
dignity. 

And again Philip wondered, as he looked at the shak- 
ing figure in the ragged brown jeans, whether he had 
really done the man a favor in saving his life. 

But under the sway of strong emotions and the stimu- 
lus of the coffee, Crafts kept on, in his nasal, excited 
voice : 

“A heap o’ rags an’ a whiskey-soaked carcass, an’ you 
cornin’ along, spry an’ proud, head up an’ shoulders back, 
an’ when you come to the holler you stopped an’ see 
what was lyin’ there! There ain’t another soul in all 
Miner’s Rest who’d ’a’ done it,” he continued after a 
little pause, and with a solemn emphasis of conviction. 
“ They’d have said, — most on ’em, ‘ Let the old cuss go! 
Won’t be hangin’ round the bar for a treat from the next 


174 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

comer who happens to be flush.’ And them that’s got 
more feelin’ would have looked kind o’ sorry for a minit 
before they had their say, ‘ Poor dog! Drunk himself to 
death! It was sure to come. Better now, perhaps, than 
later.’ I ain’t complainin’ or sayin’ ’twasn’t gospel 
truth,” he added with a kind of pitiful apology. 

He swept his ragged sleeve across his face again, and 
resumed, more to himself than to Philip, for he was 
growing excited and voluble : 

“ You’d never exchanged a word with me. There was 
no more reason you should care for me than for a wild 
Injin, an’ yet — wall — here I am, jest waked up in your 
cabin, where I’ve been lyin’, snug an’ warm all night, to 
find you’ve saved my life ! ” 

The man’s amazed, passionate gratitude surprised and 
touched Philip. But he saw that a reaction must soon 
follow the tremulous, overwrought condition of mind 
and body. 

“ I think you and I, Crafts, better cut our talk short 
here,” interposed the voice, which, through all its kindli- 
ness, had the note of personal force and decision. “I 
must be off for the rest of the day. If you want more 
coffee, you will find it piping hot, and food beside, in 
the next room. Don’t bother yourself about what I may 
have done for you. The things you want now are a 
steadier pulse and a clearer brain, and the shortest road 
to them is another half day’s solid sleep.” 

Philip had little time to himself that afternoon. He 
was carried off, soon after he left his cabin, by a company 
of miners who had just come in, wildly excited over what 
they regarded as an amazing find in Boulder Ravine, ten 
miles away. The men were going over next day to 
exploit the region. They persuaded him to accompany 


THE SOUL OF A MAN 


175 


them. He learned, a good deal to his surprise, that 
some of the party had a regard for his opinions of prom- 
ising outlooks and dips of mineral veins. 

He went, with the others, to a grove of cedars less than 
a mile from the settlement, where the plans could be 
matured for the opening of the ground about Boulder 
Ravine. Here he handled the rich specimens and lis- 
tened to the glowing reports of high assays, all of which, 
it is needless to say, made a powerful impression. 

Yet as Philip returned alone that night through the 
high-walled, verdure-filled canon, he thought again of 
the look of wonder and gratitude in the dulled eyes of 
the man he had left in his cabin. Was there an infini- 
tesimal hope, he asked himself, that he could be pulled 
up out of the slough? What powerful forces, negative 
and positive, there were against any such attempt! 
There was the deadly drag of habit, the flaccid will, and 
the fiery thirst, which burned out the manhood of soul 
and flesh! 

“What was he doing for the man?” he asked himself 
again. “ Saving the breath that was in his nostrils for 
fresh debauches?” 

Philip came suddenly to a standstill. He had been 
moving over a brilliant, many-hued carpet of wild flowers. 
Just before him stood a great bush so smothered in red 
roses that it seemed a cloud drifted down from some fiery 
sunset. Philip thought it the loveliest thing in its way 
he had ever seen ; he plucked a thick-laden branch. 

“Ah, my old Rockies,” he broke out, “your wild 
canons can beat all their gorgeous Eastern conserva- 
tories ! ” 

Then he bounded gayly up the wall and out on the trail. 


176 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XIX 

THE PROBLEM OF CALEB CRAFTS 

Philip found Crafts awake, with a rested, more natural 
expression in his eyes. They brightened, too, when he 
recognized Philip. The latter, after a question or two, 
set about preparing some nourishment for his lodger ; he 
thought, with a rueful smile, that strong coffee, in deep 
and frequent potations, would probably be one of the 
factors he should rely on, in any possible effort he might 
make for the rehabilitation of Crafts. But, of course, 
he told himself, he was not seriously considering any 
question of that sort.^ The absurdity of it would beat 
Don Quixote’s maddest adventure. He was conscious, 
too, of a strong recoil at the prospect of much which 
such an undertaking would involve for himself; he 
foresaw all the disagreeable aspects, — the offence to his 
tastes, the long exercise of patience, the tax on his time 
and freedom of movement. 

Philip had an idea, too, that delirium tremens, in some 
of its protean forms, would be the first result of any 
effort on Crafts’s part to abstain from his drams. 

The man not only drank his coffee, but, under Philip’s 
persuasiveness, partook of some more solid nourishment. 
His appearance was altogether more human; he had 
fished up a comb from the depths of his jeans’ pocket 
and attempted some improvement of his hair and beard. 


THE PROBLEM OF CALEB CRAFTS 


177 


It was Philip’s cue to take on a light, half-jesting tone 
with his guest, which certainly did not express his own 
conflicting feelings regarding him. 

“If,” he told himself once, “he was arrant fool enough 
to make a dead set at Crafts, there must be some very 
serious talk beforehand. Meanwhile,” setting his shoul- 
ders back and his jaw hard, “ he wished that idea would 
down.” 

But it returned, insistent, compelling, after he came 
back from his own supper and took a chair by the bed 
on which Crafts was sitting, propped up. The man was 
silent, rubbing his hands with his slow, restless motion. 
A large, handsome lamp burned on the table. It filled 
the room with a soft glow. The lamp had belonged to 
his uncle, and was so associated with him that Philip 
had it forwarded from Denver with some of his own 
books. 

“Well, Crafts,” Philip broke the silence, “speak up, 
man, if there is anything you want! ” 

The hands moved a little faster. 

“I was a-thinkin’.” 

“Suppose you let a fellow share your thoughts?” 

“ That it seems cur’us to a man who’s been down where 
I have so long, to wake up and find he has a friend in 
the world.” 

“ Poor old fellow ! ” 

This was Fallowes’s mental comment. His audible 
one, in a tone of infectious light-heartedness, was: 

“Then you really mean to say that I have the 
honor of being the only friend you have in the 
world?” 

There was a faint twinkle of amusement in the light 
eyes. 

N 


178 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“It ain’t the sort of honor anybody’ll be hankerin’ to 
share with yon.” 

Here was Philip’s chance. 

“ It strikes me that will be likely to depend on your- 
self in the long run.” 

A wistful look flickered in the other’s eyes. Then he 
shook his head without speaking ; but the gesture was a 
pathetic protest. 

“ You say I am your only friend in the world, Crafts? ” 

This time the voice was very serious. 

“There ain’t the shadow of a doubt on that score.” 

“And by your talk, it seems a great surprise to 
you.” 

“Surprise! It’s been the tallest one I ever had in 
my life.” 

“ If a man proves himself your friend, he would have 
a kind of right to expect some favor in return.” 

“ Cert’in; but that sort of argyment won’t hold in this 
case.” 

“Why not?” 

“You know, Fallowes. As for my doin’ you any 
favor — ” a chuckle and a groan seemed to contend in 
the man’s throat. 

“ That is your view of the case. A man that was your 
friend might take a different one.” 

Crafts fastened his light-blue eyes in blank amazement 
on Philip. In a moment he burst out : 

“Do you mean to say there’s anything that I — what 
you see lyin’ here — can do for a feller like you?” 

“ I mean to say that, most decidedly ! ” 

“What is it?” 

“ Make a man of yourself once more, Caleb Crafts ! ” 

At that virile, ringing appeal the man’s face kindled 


THE PROBLEM OF CALEB CRAFTS 


1T9 


for a moment. Then the weakness and the hopelessness 
crept over it like a shadow. He shook his head. 

“It is too late,” he said drearily. 

“We don’t agree again. You say you were not worth 
saving. I thought you were, and that is the reason you 
are lying here to-night. I want you should try and 
prove you think I, too, am worth doing something for ; I 
ask you to do this for my sake.” 

A sudden light, hope, longing, shot into Crafts ’s eyes. 
Philip knew this time that the shaft had gone home. 

That was why he cut the talk short at this point. 

That night Philip lay awake a long time under the 
trees. Between openings in the green roof he had 
glimpses of far, serene skies and of large, bright stars. 
The strong, sweet odor of the pines, the brooding stillness 
of the mountain night, were all around him. He thought 
of the man lying in the cabin, of the soul captive and 
chained in the dark prison-house of its own building. 
“Crafts,” he told himself, “was not all lost. He had 
proved himself capable of deep and genuine gratitude; 
but would that emotion be powerful enough to hold 
against all the forces which would soon be surging like 
great ocean tides against it? ” And again he thought of 
the flaccid will, the fierce appetite, probably inherited, 
and of the deadly hold of habit. 

How those stars kept up their watches, bright and 
steadfast, between the great pine rafters ! 

Philip was suddenly seeing instead of the stars a young 
girl’s eyes “by the farther sea.” 

The scales in which a human fate was hanging turned 
at last. 

Crafts should not go back to the old death without his 
making a mighty effort to save him. He would bring 


180 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

to the struggle all that youth has, — its boundless cour- 
age, its indomitable hope, and its victorious will. 

Philip Fallowes drew his blanket about him, and the 
next moment was asleep. 

Far above him the Eocky Mountains lifted their snowy 
peaks into the peaceful skies. 


HOW IT BEGAN 


181 


XX 

HOW IT BEGAN 

On entering his cabin the next morning, Philip found 
Crafts fast asleep. He was relieved by this discovery. 
It was hardly yet daylight, and he moved softly, making 
rapid preparations for his own departure, not forgetting 
Crafts’s comfort when he should awake. 

Philip felt certain that the return to consciousness 
would be followed by acute misery of mind and body. 
Crafts’s demoralized organism would fiercely demand the 
old stimulus. Everything else would be swallowed up 
in a fiery craving for his morning dram, or several of 
them. It was conceivable that, shaken and depressed as 
he was, he might gather himself together and set off to 
appease his consuming thirst. But that risk must be 
run. Philip had given his word to the mining party and 
could not fail them. 

He had an exciting day; he shared the hopes and 
enthusiasms of the hour and place; he listened to the 
talk about new leads and pockets ; he inspected eagerly 
mineral specimens, reports of assays and grades of ore, 
while the conflict of opinions waxed threateningly high 
at times over the location of shafts and the tunnelling 
of soils. In that voluble crowd, with its passionate 
hopes, its deep-laid schemes, and its obstinate convic- 
tions, Philip forgot everything else. 


182 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


The day ended with a jolly picnic in a green, lawn- 
like opening near the exploited region. 

It was late when Philip returned; he found Crafts 
awake, silent, and restless. His inquiries drew only 
brief replies, with an air of feeble sullenness. The man 
drained bowls of the strong coffee which Philip brought 
him, but could not be induced to touch a morsel of food. 
Neither was inclined for talk that night. 

The next morning Philip awoke to see once more the 
sun kindling red in the treetops. Then he remembered 
what was before him. 

“This day the life-and-death battle is to begin,” he 
said, as he leaped to his feet. “Come on! I am ready 
for the fray.” 

All the generous ardor of youth throbbed within him 
as he flung out his challenge to the fiends. 

Crafts was awake this time when Philip entered the 
cabin; but, as he expected, in a greatly prostrated con- 
dition. He had slept little. Every nerve in his frame 
was tortured and quivering for the old stimulus. The 
eyes gleamed wild and hungry from the pallid face. 
Again Philip thought of delirium tremens, but he had 
made up his mind to face even that spectre. 

He wasted little time in words after greeting Crafts 
in his blithe, hearty fashion and asking about his night. 
He received only a feeble, half-articulate response. 
Coffee, a little stronger, a little more steamingly fra- 
grant than ever, was soon in evidence. Crafts seized the 
bowl each time with greedy eyes and trembling hands, 
but he turned away from the sight of food with a shiver 
of disgust. 

A few moments later he drew himself a little higher 
in the bed, turned his miserable, haggard face on Philip, 


HOW IT BEGAN 


183 


and said, in the dreariest of tones: “It won’t do any 
good, Fallowes ! You may as well give up tryin’ at the 
outset.” 

“Give up trying what, Crafts?” 

Philip had drawn a chair by the bed. The morning 
sun looked through the cabin window, and shone on the 
two men, — the one in the flower of his youth, strong, 
confident, compelling; the other hopeless, broken, aged 
— soul and body — before his time. 

“ Of course I see what you’re after. It’s mighty good 
of you, but it’s too late for anything of that sort.” 

In this way the talk opened. It lasted all that morn- 
ing. Philip, of course, had the larger share in it. Crafts 
interposed at times with arguments, representations, 
qualifications, which would have been likely to chill a 
less enthusiastic and inflexible auditor. But at last the 
glowing affirmatives, the stirring appeals, the contagious 
courage, began to have their effect. Certainly no man 
had ever talked to Caleb Crafts in that way, with such 
power, such persuasiveness, such vital sympathy; and 
then, behind all the words, was the wonder and spell of 
the personality. 

Philip, keenly watchful, caught an occasional gleam 
in Crafts’s eyes which convinced him that some chord 
of old memories and manhood had begun to vibrate under 
his touch. 

It was this perception which made him ask, finally : 

“You would be glad to get out of all this misery and 
be a man once more, Crafts?” 

“ Glad ! ” echoed Crafts, rocking himself to and fro, 
and with more animation than he had yet shown. 
“Don’t you s’pose that a man would be glad to climb 
out of hell into heaven? Do you think I enjoy bein’ 


184 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


the drunken, God-forsaken sot I’ve sunk into, livin' for 
nothin' but his drams, and not courage even to put an 
end to his miserable life?" 

“Well, we're going to try for something else — you 
and I, Crafts," replied Philip, in his deep, resonant 
voice, springing up and towering over the man, and 
looking very handsome in his miner's flannel, and feel- 
ing strong enough just then to face an army of fiends. 

But though this emotion in a young man was natural 
enough, the talk which ensued was very much to the 
point. It was Philip's first stipulation that Crafts should 
stay for an indefinite time at the cabin, keeping abso- 
lutely aloof from old associations and temptations. He 
also suggested that his guest should take a bath that day, 
and then put every vestige of his present garments in 
the fire. He went on to state that he owned a new flannel 
outfit, which had come to him recently through some 
mistake, and must have been designed for a thinner man. 

“It will fit you precisely, Crafts," he concluded; “I 
am curious to see what kind of man will emerge from 
the process, when you are indued with some new clothes 
and have given proper attention to your hair and beard." 

Crafts laughed a pleased, embarrassed laugh; but 
Philip saw that a chord of human vanity had been struck 
at last. 


THE BATTLE WITH THE FIENDS 


185 


XXI 

THE BATTLE WITH THE FIENDS 

Two weeks had passed since Philip Fallowes brought 
Caleb Crafts to his cabin. They had not been easy ones 
for host or guest. Sometimes, with all his will, courage, 
and enthusiasm, — the dominant will, the invincible 
courage, the eager enthusiasm of youth, — Philip almost 
quailed before the struggle with iron habit, relaxed 
energies, and maddened appetites. 

He knew perfectly, too, that he himself was the only 
thing which stood between Crafts and hopeless relapse. 
The man’s conscience had been aroused; his better in- 
stincts and longings had responded to his young 
friend’s efforts and appeals; his long-lost self-respect 
had quickened once more — but all these, without the 
other, would have gone down in that battle which the 
weak, sodden, enslaved soul of a man was making for 
his life. 

Such a reflection is always powerful with a generous 
nature. Philip never looked into the man’s eyes without 
seeing the dog-like devotion in them. And in this lay 
the secret of Philip’s hold; he had awakened in this 
man’s lonely, desolate, hope-forsaken soul that adoring 
affection which is the kindling of a new life, and which 
is, in itself, the most potent influence which one human 
being can exercise over another. 


186 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


There was one problem which Crafts was always 
revolving in his mind, and which he never succeeded in 
solving. This was that “ such a young feller as Fallowes, 
so highly edicated, lookin’ as though he could carry the 
world on his shoulders, had done — was doing — all this 
for him, — Caleb Crafts ! ” 

The consciousness, underlying everything else, had a 
profound effect at this time. It gave the man a new 
sense of personal value and dignity to find he had awak- 
ened such an interest in so superior a being. 

All this, however, did not prevent Philip’s going 
through scenes with Crafts which shook his own nerves. 
The man had, for a time, been carried out of himself by 
that constraining presence and influence. He had even 
been brought to agree to placing himself unreservedly 
in Philip’s hands. His craving for liquor had, under 
the strong excitement of the time, been held at bay ; but, 
in a day or two, it had returned with all its old raging 
strength. There were times when Crafts would passion- 
ately beseech Philip to kill him and put him out of his 
misery. At others, he would plead for a glass of whis- 
key, as a man might plead for his life. Philip, between 
an access of pity and a doubt whether this sudden break- 
ing up of old habits would not prove too severe a strain 
on mind and body, was inclined to yield. But if he did, 
he would reflect in time, all the old agony must be gone 
over again. In these days Crafts was often on the verge 
of some form of delirium tremens. 

The worst times of all were when Philip’s own heart 
failed him. He would ask himself whether he had not 
made a huge mistake in attempting Crafts’s rehabilita- 
tion. Had he not done his part when he wheeled him 
out of Aspen Hollow to his cabin? Would it not have 


THE BATTLE WITH THE FIENDS 


187 


been wiser afterward to leave the poor wretcb to his 
drams and his fate? 

But, after these questions, the nobler nature would 
be sure to reassert itself. 

As a rule, Crafts was docile in Philip’s hands. In 
his saner moments he would beg Philip not to regard his 
wild talk in his frenzies. As the days went on, Philip’s 
interest and pity for the unhappy life, stranded at his 
door, augmented. There was something in the man him- 
self to justify this. His demoralization seemed to have 
been confined to his inebriety. Despite his later life 
and companionships, no foul jests, no unclean word, ever 
crossed his lips. 

This was partly explained by his antecedents, — the 
early-orphaned boyhood, the weak, doting grandparents 
on the farm among the hills of southern Maine. At 
their death he found himself, in early manhood, pos- 
sessed of a considerable fortune for the time and place. 
The right kind of woman, entering his life at this critical 
period, might have had an immense uplifting influence. 
Instead, there appeared a young girl, — Philip divined 
at once that she was a pretty, shallow, heartless minx, 
— who flirted with him desperately, and then deserted 
him for a more ambitious marriage. 

Hope and courage gave way under this blow. The man 
began to drown his despair in whiskey, sold the farming 
properties at a sacrifice, drifted out West, made occa- 
sional tentative efforts to free himself from the habit 
which was fast enslaving him, had fresh experience of 
faithless friends, — Philip gathered the whole pitiful 
autobiography from these fragmentary confidences. 

The pleasure which Crafts showed in his new clothes 
was so transparent as to be half amusing, half pathetic. 


188 DOROTHY DRAYCOTt’s TO-MORROWS 


Philip added various essentials, and was amazed himself 
at the kind of man who emerged from the old integu- 
ments. Certainly, new clothes would have no slight 
share in Crafts’s reformation, if that blissful result was 
ever attained. 

This metamorphosis, however, made matters, in one 
respect, more difficult for Philip. It irked him to exer- 
cise such authority, to be so imperative, with a man 
almost twice as old as himself, especially as Crafts 
manifested signs of returning self-respect and manhood. 
But Crafts knew that his subjection was a voluntary 
one; he was in reality as free as the man who at times 
exercised such mastery over him; he could at any moment 
have walked out of the cabin and left it forever. 

Whenever Philip went away, he pleaded with him not 
to be absent long. During these weeks the younger man 
gave up his long trips into the mountains, and returned 
several times each day to the cabin. He had exacted a 
promise from Crafts that he would not leave it in his 
absence. But Philip was always conscious of a sense of 
relief when he crossed his threshold and saw the familiar 
figure, big drops on the face often showing through what 
agony he had kept his word. 

“ It wouldn’t do any good to lock the door,” he insisted, 
shaking his head mournfully. “When the madness 
comes over me, I could smash the windows; I could 
fight with wild beasts ; I could wrastle for a drink with 
a thousand devils, if they stood in my way.” 

All this Philip had to face, and to keep up a cheery, 
buoyant mien and confident speech. He always felt it 
a hopeful sign when he held Crafts’s attention with some 
story, or won a sudden laugh with some jest. 

At the end of a fortnight a new difficulty presented 


THE BATTLE WITH THE FIENDS 


189 


itself, — one which Philip had all along foreseen, but 
had not been able to decide how he could deal with it. 

“ Circumstances, ” he reflected, “must determine that, 
and meanwhile he had all on his hands that he could 
manage.” 

Miner’s Rest, despite the fierce pace of its daily life, 
had found time to be curious over the disappearance of 
the familiar figure on the street and in the saloons. 
Crafts’s retreat had been accidentally discovered, and 
some of his old cronies had felt curiosity enough to 
visit the cabin in Philip’s absence. 

They were hardly able to recognize Crafts in his 
changed dress ; the man himself had maintained a sur- 
prising amount of dignity and reserve during the inter- 
view. They retired to relate the story, with their own 
comments and exaggerations. Miner’s Rest was soon 
agog. The saloons had endless mirth over young 
Fallowes’s attempt to reform Caleb Crafts. It struck 
the crowd as the hugest of jokes, and they pledged his 
success with loud guffaws and fiery draughts of whiskey. 


190 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XXII 

“at mullins’” 

The saloon was a long, two-storied, unpainted build- 
ing, with a scent of fresh pine still asserting itself amid 
less agreeable and wholesome odors. The lower story 
was occupied by a bar, with gambling-tables under a 
chandelier of enormous size and gorgeous gilding. The 
story above did service as a dance hall. 

One morning, about three weeks after young Fallowes 
had discovered Caleb Crafts on the trail, a crowd had 
gradually collected in the saloon. It was a good-natured 
crowd. One always thinks of that first when it comes 
to a Western mining assemblage. Bowie-knives and 
revolvers flashed back the sunlight harmlessly in the 
belts of their respective owners. The company was 
composed of men of differing ages and varied appear- 
ance. Some wore picturesque, wide-brimmed sombreros ; 
some ragged straw hats, and trousers tucked in their 
boots. The whole represented about the average quality 
of the habitues of “Mullins’,” as the saloon was called, 
from the name of its proprietor. 

Near the centre of this room stood Caleb Crafts. He 
was the object of general interest and curiosity. Some 
of the men removed their pipes, so that the clouds of 
smoke should not interfere with their stare. The man 


“AT MULLINS' 


191 


5 


himself was so transformed externally that his old boon 
companions conld hardly believe their eyes. 

For the last week, Crafts had been seen more or less 
in the settlement. It was impossible that he should 
remain longer in hiding. He and Philip both agreed 
on this point, after his retreat had been discovered. Of 
course his reappearance furnished Miner’s Rest with the 
latest sensation. But his former comrades perceived 
that the change in his appearance was not to be solely 
accounted for by new clothes. There was a change in 
the man himself, — in his bearing, in his every tone and 
glance,— which struck every one who came in contact 
with him. 

During the last days the torture of restlessness had 
goaded Crafts into some attempt at work. Philip encour- 
aged this idea. He believed that interest and activity 
of some sort would be wholesome for him as he regained 
his strength; he could not be blind to the dangers this 
course involved, but those, he always mentally told him- 
self, would have to be faced. 

Crafts’s objective point took him that morning past 
Mullins’. It was the first time he had approached his 
old haunt. Some of his familiars, lounging about the 
door, recognized him, after a prolonged stare. He had 
resolved to do a little prospecting by himself, in some 
of the nearer gullies ; he paused a moment, however, to 
answer some of the questions with which his old cronies 
assailed him. 

A group of patrons inside were awaiting their morning 
dram. They suddenly learned of Crafts’s proximity. 
One of the number proposed to lay a wager that he could 
be induced to break his abstinence on the instant. It 
was just the kind of suggestion to strike the fancy of the 


192 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

crowd. The stakes ran high. In a few moments one of 
the ring hurried to the door and shouted to Crafts that he 
wanted to have a few minutes’ business confab with him. 

The men, idling outside, stared at this novel proposal. 
Crafts himself was flattered by it, a little bewildered, 
too, by the general attention, or he would not have 
crossed the threshold of Mullins’ without a suspicion 
that some mischief was in the air. 

The crowd near the bar opened and closed about him. 
Jokes and guffaws saluted him. They chaffed and gibed 
him in their rude fashion. One man complimented him 
on his improved appearance. Another inquired how he 
enjoyed playing the total-abstinence dodge, and stuff of 
that sort. 

The man who had proposed the wager and decoyed 
Crafts inside, and who had a coarse mouth and a cunning 
leer of his eyes, engaged him in talk about a vein of rich 
ore which had just been discovered near Cottonwood 
Creek. Somebody behind the two made a sign to Mul- 
lins, and added, in a muffled tone : “ The stiffest kind of 
whiskey this time, Bill ! ” 

The company about the door had, by this time, been 
informed of what was going on. They poured in to see 
the fun. Elbows nudged each other. Men winked, 
chuckled, and lifted their eyebrows significantly. All 
eyes were turned in the direction of Crafts, about whom 
two or three had joined in keeping up the farce of the 
“new vein and the big show.” 

The bartender suddenly whipped a large glass of his 
strongest whiskey over the counter, under Crafts’s nose. 

“ Come, old man ! ” he shouted. “ Here’s the sort of 
stuff to moisten your palate after its long drought. 
Down with it.” 


“AT MULLINS 1 


193 


There was a breathless silence. Every gaze in the bar- 
room was turned on Crafts. 

He looked about him ; he saw in an instant the fool he 
had been, the trap into which he had fallen. 

But at the sight, the scent of the whiskey in his nos- 
trils, a wild-animal greed leaped to his eyes, a thirst 
that was like licking fire burned in his veins ; he snatched 
the glass; he raised it to his lips. The crowd watched, 
motionless, spell-bound. 

It rose suddenly before him — the strong young face 
of Philip Fallowes, the rebuking, pitying eyes which 
had been following him all these weeks. There was 
an instant’s pause, and then, in the dead stillness, a 
sound of crashing glass, and Mullins’ best whiskey was 
streaming over the floor ! 

Then Caleb Crafts turned upon his tormentors, the 
tall, thin figure straightening itself, the eyes filled with 
a swift, triumphant light. 

“ He was the only friend I had, boys ! ” His voice fal- 
tered, and his lips twitched a moment. “ He found me 
up there, jest at nightfall, in Aspen Holler, a bundle o’ 
rags, in such a dead drunk it was likely I’d been froze 
stiff afore mornin’. You wouldn’t one of you have lifted 
a little finger to save me ; he and I had never passed a 
word, but he went straight hum, got his wheelbarrer out, 
— that young tenderfoot you used to sneer about, — 
trundled it up the trail, heaved me aboard, and took me 
down to his cabin. He’s kept me there the last three 
weeks, and he’s been a-watchin’ and a-carin’ for me, and 
doin’ his utmost to wake up a man in that heap o’ rags 
and whiskey he come across a-lyin’ on the trail. 

“ You’d laid your trap smart, boys, and that whiskey 
would have been down my throat, instead of on the floor, 
o 


194 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

and you’d have had your laugh by this time, if that 
young Fallowes’s face hadn’t ris’ up before me in the 
nick o’ time, and saved me.” 

And again he drew his tall, loose-jointed figure to its 
full height, and seemed to tower above the crowd, as he 
looked about him, his gaze bright and fearless. Then 
he passed out of the saloon. 

Miners are men. The little drama had touched the 
better instincts of the crowd. A wild cheer broke out 
as Crafts reached the sidewalk. It was followed by 
another. Even Mullins, rotund, red-faced, and fiery- 
bearded, joined in with full-volumed lungs, and then 
set briskly about furnishing his customers with fresh 
drams in honor of this unprecedented occasion. 

In a little while the tongues loosened. The comments 
of the crowd were characteristic. 

“I wouldn’t ’a’ believed, if I hadn’t heard it with my 
own ears, the old cove had so much sand in him! ” 

“That’s what' I call nat’ral-born eloquence. Ain’t 
many persons could match it.” 

But the moral effect of the scene on the better ele- 
ments of the crowd — the portion who had joined in out 
of idle curiosity, and for the sake of a little excitement 
— now asserted itself. 

“I tell you,” spoke up a small, dark, keen-faced man, 
with a little fringe of black mustache, “his talk about 
what that young Fallowes had done for him made the 
rest of us seem small pertatoes. Think of his bundlin’ 
the old feller up in his wheelbarrer and carryin’ him off 
to his cabin and keepin’ him there all this time! It 
ain’t every day you find a man up to that sort of thing! ” 

The man who stood next to this last speaker, had the 
build of a giant, a good-natured face, half hidden in a 


“AT MULLINS’ 


195 


> >> 


thicket of yellow beard. He was a young miner, well 
known, and a favorite among the crowd, who were aware 
that he was brave as a lion. On his way back to the 
“diggin’s,” he had stopped in for a moment to say good- 
by and have a last drink with some of his cronies. 

He spoke up in his strong, deep-lunged bass. 

“ I jest want to express my opinion before I leave, and 
that is, it was devilish mean to try and play such a trick 
on the old fellow. All this cussedness only serves to 
show that young Fallowes up in his true light. I hope 
your fun will reflect a little more credit on you next 
time, boys. My name’s Dick Grainger, and you all 
know where I’m to be found.” 

The giant touched the revolver at his belt with a bit 
of good-humored braggadocio, and strode out of the 
saloon. 


196 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XXIII 

THE PARTING AT CATAMOUNT CURVE 

Philip Fallowes entered his cabin with his usual 
long, swift stride. His first glance was a searching one 
in the direction of his guest. Then the first question 
came, with the usual buoyant tone and manner. 

“All right, to-day, Crafts?” 

“Oh, yes, all’s right, Fallowes.” 

The younger man had noticed a little pause before the 
elder spoke. Crafts was sitting in his old place by the 
window. Philip came over and dropped down on a chair 
in front of him. 

“Has anything happened to-day?” 

“Yes; there has.” 

Philip thought he detected some new, forceful note in 
the nasal drawl. The nervous movement of the limbs 
had ceased. 

“But you are going to tell me, man?” 

In less than half an hour Philip knew every detail of 
the scene which had taken place in Mullins’ saloon that 
morning. 

His amazement and delight knew no bounds. He 
sprang to his feet; he tossed his sombrero like a boy, in 
the air. Then he laid his hands on Crafts’s shoulders. 

“Dear old fellow!” he cried. “What a dastardly 
piece of business it was ! But how splendidly you came 


THE PARTING AT CATAMOUNT CURVE 197 


out of it! I’m prouder than if my pick had been to-day 
in the richest vein in all the Bockies ! ” 

“ It wa’n’t I. It was you, as I told ’em.” 

The red flush which had crept into his cheeks — for 
Crafts had lived over the whole scene in his recital — 
was slowly dying down. 

“ What nonsense ! It is all very fine of you to give 
me the credit, but I’m not such a cad as to wear your 
laurels. I tell you it was glorious ! I shall have faith 
in you from this hour; you will have it in yourself! ” 

Crafts shook his head slowly, doubtfully. 

“I can’t; you can’t,” he said. “I couldn’t trust my- 
self to go through it ag’in.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Philip, equally per- 
plexed by the words and manner. 

“Jest what I said. I couldn’t go through that thing 
a second time and count on cornin’ out as I did the fust. 
The scent of that whiskey in my nostrils — ” he paused 
and shuddered. “ I know ’em ! They may lay low for 
a time, but they’ll be settin’ their devil’s snares for me 
ag’in — not the same fellers, p’rhaps. They looked as 
if they’d had enough of it. But this story, you see, is 
goin’ round among the saloons and camps, and others 
will be wantin’ to try their hand at the game, some for 
the fun of it, and others out of cussedness. I’ve been 
looking the thing square in the face, turnin’ it all round, 
sittin’ here for hours.” 

“You don’t do yourself justice, Crafts! ” Philip broke 
out, with the impetuosity of youth. “ A man is not the 
same after such a deed of moral heroism. You stand 
on a new plane now. You have gained a new vantage- 
ground for the next struggle.” 

“ Mebbe ! ” Crafts shook his head dubiously. “ But 


198 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

I can’t be so sure of it as you. They’ll be cert’in to set 
new traps for me, as I said, and come on me when I’m 
least lookin’ for it. There’s a kind of power, too, in 
places and people you’ve known for a long time to keep 
you in the old ways. All that would be diff’runt in a 
new place. Fallowes,” — his tone changing to a key of 
fixed purpose, and looking steadily at his friend, — “it’s 
come down to a fine p’int with me. I’ve got to clear 
out of Miner’s Rest.” 

Philip’s amazement at this last avowal took away his 
power of speech for a moment. When he spoke, he 
attempted no argument ; he merely asked quietly : “ But 
where would you go, Crafts?” 

“It don’t make much diff’runce to me. I should 
strike off for some minin’ camp and turn to prospectin’ 
on my own hook, or get somebody to grubstake me.” 

Philip rose, paced rapidly a few times across the floor. 
Then he turned to the elder man and laid his hand on 
his shoulder. 

“Crafts,” he said, with a real affectionateness in his 
tone, “ we won’t talk this thing over any more now. I 
want to sleep on it. You look tired, and I’m ravenously 
hungry.” 

Philip did his best with the supper that night. The 
broiled steak and game, the delicious coffee, to which 
the two men sat down in the cabin, might have tempted 
the appetite of a gourmand. 

Philip Fallowes lay awake a long time that night on 
his odorous couch of pine needles, with the stars looking 
down on him from the far mystery of height and distance, 
through the lattices of pine boughs. He went over the 
shameful scene that morning at Mullins’; he went over 
the later talk in his cabin. Slowly and with reluctance 


THE PARTING AT CATAMOUNT CURVE 199 


he had to admit to himself the force of Crafts’s reason- 
ing; he could not urge him to stay against his own 
instincts. But when he pictured him, shaken and un- 
nerved, in a distant mountain camp, amid strange scenes 
and people, the prospect gave him a real pang. Philip 
had by this time grown to take a deep personal interest 
in the man. 

But he saw now, clearly as Crafts himself, the nearer 
dangers of Miner’s Rest. The struggle. would be main- 
tained here at a disadvantage. The worst and most reck- 
less elements of the community would no doubt combine 
to accomplish his downfall. It would be a matter of 
pride with them. 

Then Philip recalled the new tone of energy and 
resolve with which Crafts had spoken. That moment 
of struggle and triumph in the saloon seemed to have 
made a new man of him. No doubt his instinct had 
pointed true. Away from his old boon companions, amid 
new surroundings, his chances would be better for a fresh 
start. Philip began to see that he had done, at least for 
the present, all he could for Caleb Crafts. 

The next morning the whole matter was gone over 
thoroughly between the two. After hours of talk, it 
was decided that Crafts should try his fortunes in a new 
mining settlement about a hundred miles north of Miner’s 
Rest. 

Grizzly Gulch camp had been chosen, at Fallowes’s 
suggestion. He had done some prospecting in company 
with a man who, he had since learned, was foreman in 
one of the newly opened mines in the canon that had 
been christened with so grim a name. In the days the 
two had spent on the mountains, Philip had decided that 
his companion, though not a polished, was a thoroughly 


200 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

kind-hearted fellow. He wrote a letter which he felt 
sure would be of service to Crafts on his arrival at 
Grizzly Gulch. 

When it was settled, the elder man was impatient to 
be gone. At this time, however, he often said to Philip, 
with a husky voice and a trembling of the lips : 

“ You’re all the friend I’ve got in the world, Fallowes. 
It jest breaks me up to think of leavin’ you.” 

The trip to Grizzly Gulch involved a long stage ride. 
The point of intersection with the coach was at Cata- 
mount Curve, ten miles from Miner’s Best. Philip 
announced his intention to accompany his friend to the 
junction: The two men set off on broncos. 

The trail led them at first among small, beautiful 
canons, with singing creeks, and the September glory of 
wild flowering, out of which they climbed into the world 
of cedars and sharp-pointed firs, until these failed among 
piled rocks and bare ridges. 

At these times the men’s attention was engrossed by 
their animals; but when they struck the descent, the 
trail had a comparatively easy grade, and they could ride 
abreast. 

It had been Philip’s habit to avoid long arguments and 
sage advice, so far as was possible, with Crafts. He 
had seen all along that his real power had lain from the 
beginning, not in what he said to, but what he had done 
for, him. 

But now, with the thought that the poor fellow would 
soon have passed from him into the silence and distance, 
his heart yearned to say some last thing which he could 
carry away, which he might remember in some sore 
strait. 

“Crafts,” he spoke suddenly after a little silence, as 


THE PARTING AT CATAMOUNT CURVE 201 


they came on a long reach of rocky trail, “you know 
when a man gets into the hardest sort of straits, and 
there is no human power to help him, he can remember 
that God is around. I haven’t said much about Him to 
you, because — well, when it came to the pinch, I felt 
a better fellow than I ought to do that.” 

Crafts pulled his rein sharply and turned to his friend. 
A sudden fire shot into his eyes. 

“You thought that, did you?” he said. “Wall, for 
my part, I’ve been thinkin’ all these weeks, too, and it 
came to jest this: ‘If the God they tell about re’ly is, 
it stands to reason He couldn’t make anybody better’n 
Himself. There’s Fallowes, now! ’ It’s been a kind of 
thought to tie to.” 

“Crafts! ” That was all Philip said. But he drew a 
long, unsteady breath. Had not his own thought been 
essentially the same of a tall slip of a girl, who probably 
by this time had forgotten his existence? 

They rode out on a bare, sandy highway. On their left 
was a high, ragged bluff, at whose base the road made a 
sharp curve. In a few moments a great, yellow stage 
came in sight. The riders signalled it. Philip helped 
Crafts to remove the box, which he had taken care 
should be well supplied with everything for his imme- 
diate needs. 

They gripped each other’s hands and gazed in each 
other’s eyes. 

“You are not going to disappoint me, Crafts?” 
Philip’s voice was a husky appeal. 

“If I do, you’ll never look on my face ag’in. If 
I don’t, I shall come back to you, some time, to 
prove it.” 

The passengers stared in idle curiosity out of the stage- 


202 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

window. The driver whistled impatiently to his horses. 
In a few moments Philip Fallowes was standing alone 
with the broncos, and scarcely seeing the yellow coach, 
as it rolled away, because of something that suddenly 
flashed in his eyes. 


RED KNOLLS AGAIN 


203 


XXIV 

RED KNOLLS AGAIN 

It was the last day of the month, and the month was 
May. That means in New England that the spring has 
answered to her time ; that the great tidal wave of life 
has swept surging and flooding over a land shorn and 
desolate with the winter, harried and beaten with the 
storms, — a land healed and clothed now with all the 
abundance and beauty of the leafage, and that awaits, 
amid choiring birds and garlanding flowers, the coming 
of the June. 

It was the time which Dorothy Draycott had chosen 
for celebrating at Red Knolls the first birthday that 
Daisy Ross had ever known. 

“0'f course,” said Dorothy, “with three hundred and 
sixty-five birthdays to choose from, the chances are 
immensely against its being the real one ; but in all its 
freshness and sweetness, in its beauty and gladness, it 
is the day, away down to its golden heart, which is 
symbolic of Daisy ! ” 

Everybody agreed with this sentiment. 

So Daisy and Dake Cramley were asked to a quiet 
little banquet at Red Knolls, and there were to be pretty 
gifts after the feast, and all the things which would 
make the day dear and memorable to the little girl, who 


204 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

would be a lovelier thing than the fairest flower they 
would twine in her birthday wreath. 

In the early afternoon Tom Draycott came out of the 
side-door, sauntered down the walk, and stretched him- 
self on a small grassy bank where some raspberry thickets 
were throwing long tremulous shadows. 

“Of course I am a lazy, luxurious rascal,” he said to 
himself, “to take this blissful midday ease, while most 
of my fellow-beings are delving and moiling at their 
stint; but this air and sunshine must be the excuse to 
mj r conscience.” 

His legs were stretched in the sunlight; the tall rasp- 
berry bushes, with all their rambling leafage, threw 
frolicsome shadows across his face; the birds sang; the 
winds gossiped among the boughs. It was the same old 
world, but young now with her undying youth and beauty 
about him. 

Tom had brought, from mere force of habit, a book 
with him. It lay unopened on the grass by his side. 
The vast, green, illuminated page before him was better 
worth reading just now than any printed one. 

A pair of small feet stole softly through the grass, so 
softly that he did not hear them ; a pair of eyes, which 
seemed to have stolen the tint and depth of the sapphire 
overhead, were sparkling and dancing just behind him ; 
a sudden shadow fell across his eyes. Before he could 
turn, two soft little palms closed over them. 

“Is a real ghost abroad in daylight?” he asked, his 
voice keyed to a pretence of awe and wonder. 

There was no reply, but his ears caught little smoth- 
ered sounds of laughter. 

“Does there happen to be a white-and-gold Daisy 
growing around here?” he inquired gravely. 


RED KNOLLS AGAIN 


205 


This time the smothered laughter broke out in a peal 
of merriment. The soft palrns were suddenly lifted. 
Tom stretched his arm around and drew the light figure 
before him. 

“ They sent me out here to find you, Mr. Tom ; they said 
you would be glad of some company, ” explained Daisy 
Boss, when she had nestled down on the grass beside him. 

He divined at once that the household, busy with 
birthday preparations and surprises, had resorted to this 
expedient for getting her away. 

“ I hope you were not sorry to come, Daisy ? ” 

“Of course I was glad, unless you were — busy.” 

“ Oh, no ! The old grind is off to-day, and I am tak- 
ing my ease at mine inn.” 

As he spoke, he gazed at her with pleased interest, — at 
the golden head and the wild-rose bloom in her cheeks, 
and the sapphire depth in her eyes ; he thought how all 
nature’s lovely unfolding things were typical of herself. 
But he did not say this; his mother had frequently 
warned him against anything of the sort. Daisy’s great- 
est charm was her ingenuousness. Mrs. Draycott wanted 
to shield it from a touch of the world’s breath. Tom at 
heart agreed with his mother, and usually brought him- 
self up in time, when he was going off into a strain of 
flattery. Daisy’s artlessness, her pretty childish confi- 
dences, had great charm for the cultivated and critical 
young man. The two had endless frolics and romps, as 
well as grave talks together. As she sat by his side 
now, the shining head, the happy face, drooped a little 
toward him, the memory of that first time he saw her at 
Bed Knolls came up vividly ; he remembered with what 
infantile trust, what childlike assurance, she had walked 
straight into his heart. 


206 DOROTHY DRAYCOTYS TO-MORROWS 

Her question broke suddenly into the memory. “ What 
are you thinking about now, Mr. Tom?” 

“Well, for one thing, that you are our little May 
Daisy.” 

She lifted her eyebrows archly. “ And so are all the 
other daisies that are making the fields white like snow- 
drifts to-day, and that will be June daisies to-morrow.” 

“Yes; but this one is not like the field daisies. It is 
golden-liaired and blue-eyed and dimpled — ” he remem- 
bered his mother’s warning and stopped short. 

“And those other daisies don’t have birthdays — at 
least they don’t know it, if they have. O Mr. Tom, it 
is such a beautiful thing to have a birthday! This is 
my first one, you know. I suppose it seems all the more 
strange and beautiful for that.” 

Tom wondered with himself. “ Must not such a bright 
little brain have been conscious of some mystery in its 
past — been perplexed to account for some things ? ” He 
knew that Dake Cramley and Mrs. Bray had persuaded 
themselves that Daisy had forgotten all the events of 
her infancy; but the people at Red Knolls had never 
fully shared that conviction. 

“ Well, for my part, Daisy, I am hugely glad that the 
first birthday is to be kept with mirth and feast at Red 
Knolls, and that you are to be Queen of this last May- 
day.” 

She drew a long breath, as though the happiness and 
wonder of it almost oppressed her. Then she went on 
to tell him how Mr. and Mrs. Amoury and aunty Dayles 
had written letters, which were to be read after the 
birthday supper, and which would tell her how sorry 
they were not to share in the festival and all the lovely 
things which were to happen. But she did not tell him 


RED KNOLLS AGAIN 


207 


about the presents. These had been religiously kept to 
crown the end of the feast with a delightful surprise. 

Tom listened again with pleased interest to all this 
prattle. Daisy’s next remark startled him. 

“ I can’t tell just why, but this makes me think of the 
first time I came to Red Knolls.” 

“Do you remember that, Daisy?” 

“ Oh, yes ! I know it happened such a long while ago, 
and I was very little, but I remember it better than I do 
a great many later things.” 

Tom bent down and plucked a pretty pink carnation, 
which had lost its way from its sisterhood in the flower- 
beds and sent up a little solitary glow in the grass at 
his feet. 

“What do you remember, for instance, Daisy?” 

“I remember just the way you looked, Mr. Tom, when 
you came into the room. I was playing with Hidalgo, 
— he was the biggest dog I had ever seen, — and I got 
up and sat still, and we both stared at each other a long 
time, without speaking a word. Then, all of a sudden, 
it came to me who you were, and I spoke up and told 
you. Oh, I see it all so plain, now ! ” 

“I remember that little scene vividly, too, and can 
add something to your picture. I see this moment a 
small figure hurrying across the room, and a sweet little 
face, with the bluest eyes in the world, is being lifted to 
mine for a kiss.” 

“ Oh, yes, I remember ! ” she laughed gleefully a 
moment. Then she poised her head gravely. Some 
unconscious withdrawal — the shyness and reserve of 
nascent womanhood — seemed to come over her. “ But 
I was very young at that time, Mr. Tom ! ” she said. 

The words, the manner, were so bewitching, that Tom 


208 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


was conscious of a strong temptation to bend down and 
kiss the sweet mouth; but he contented himself with 
replying : “ Of course you were very young, Daisy, but 

— why do you say that? ” 

“ I don’t know,” locking and unlocking her little white 
fingers, “ unless — well — it seems as though I ought to 
have waited for you ! ” 

Of course he laughed at this speech, but, all the same, 
it had touched something deep and reverent in his nature 

— something that he had an 'almost morbid horror of 
wearing on his sleeve. 

In a few moments Daisy was saying: “But I think it 
is very strange you should remember that.” 

“Why do you think it strange, when I can remember 
things — worlds of them — which happened long before? ” 

“ But it was such a little thing for you — a great, big 
man — to remember, Mr. Tom ; that was what I meant. 
It couldn’t have been in the least important to you.” 

“You think so? Well, my dear, little girls cannot 
always judge what things are important to ‘great, big 
men. ’ ” 

“ Oh, such a splendid butterfly as that was — crimson 
and gold! It was on that white gilia a moment. How 
I wish you could have seen it ! ” 

“We won’t waste any time regretting it, with a whole 
summer full of butterflies before us.” 

Daisy laughed a little at that speech, and then she fell 
silent; and Tom, glancing at her occasionally, knew by 
the smile which hovered about her lips that her fancies 
were busy with the birthday festival so close at hand. 
Then he fell to pondering again whether Daisy’s memory, 
which had kept so tenaciously the events of their first 
meeting, could be utterly oblivious of all the circum- 


RED KNOLLS AGAIN 


209 


stances which had preceded it. If it were not, this long, 
absolute silence proved a reserve power almost inconceiv- 
able in so young a child. He grew curious as he watched 
her, but he would not hazard an indirect question, lest 
it might stir to life some old, painful scene that had gone 
to sleep in the dawn of her memory. 

Daisy started suddenly, looked up, and met his full 
gaze with this thought behind it. Instantly there was 
a flash of consciousness in her face. It flushed and grew 
tremulous. Then she nestled close to his side and said, 
in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper : “ Mr. 
Tom, I know what you were thinking about! ” 

“You do?” 

She bowed her head with grave decision. 

“But how do you know, Daisy?” 

“ Sometimes I can tell what people are thinking about 
me. I don’t know how, — just, — but it seems as though 
I felt it.” 

“Will you tell me what you felt I was thinking about, 
Daisy? ” 

The child drew a long breath that was like a sigh. 
Then she snuggled a little closer to him with a kind of 
appealing movement; her voice was so low that he bent 
his head not to lose a syllable. 

“ I knew you were wondering whether I remembered 
things that happened before that time I saw you first! ” 

“ Daisy ! ” his head went up in amazement. 

“Yes; that is what you were thinking!” Then, in 
a moment, looking him in the face again, and with a 
little tremble in her voice, she said: “Mr. Tom, I do 
remember ! ” 

“What do you remember?” throwing the last vestige 
of caution to the winds, 

p 


210 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Again that fluttering sigh, the little fingers working 
rapidly in and out. “ They think I’ve forgotten, — Dake 
and Mrs. Bray, — and they are so careful never to say a 
word to bring it up, because they fear it would trouble 
me, and — and — I didn’t mean to tell you, Mr. Tom.” 

She said this anxiously, her lips quivering, much as 
though she had been confessing some fault. It went to 
Tom’s heart. 

“Never mind, Daisy dear. You have done no harm, 
and I shall never tell them.” 

The tone, the words, quieted and comforted her. Tom 
gazed at her, struck with amazement at the self-control 
which she — a mere infant at the beginning — had main- 
tained through all these years. She had hidden from 
those who were constantly with her, and who watched 
her with unfailing tenderness, the memories which lay 
vivid on the farthest borderland of her childhood; he 
saw, too, what the silence must have cost her, what a 
relief it must be to share her secret and unburden her 
heart to another. So he said, with a tone full of kind- 
ness and persuasiveness — and both with Tom Draycott 
could be very constraining: “But you have not yet 
answered my question, Daisy?” 

Another of these fluttering breaths, a little closer nes- 
tling to his side, and she began. 

“The thing I remember best is when Dakie came. 
There is a long time before that is very dark, and it 
seems that I was in some strange, dreadful place, and 
very unhappy, and scared all the while; and faces will 
come up sometimes and things that happened, but they 
are all so far away I can’t tell which is dream and which 
is true. Perhaps I should think it was all a dream, if I 
didn’t remember that other time.” 


RED KNOLLS AGAIN 


211 


“ And it is the wisest thing to think they are all dreams, 
whenever they do come up, ” commented Tom decidedly. 

“But that other is not a dream,” rejoined the sweet 
voice, with a note of assuredness all through it. “ It all 
stands out as clear and certain as — as this very minute. 
I see it all,” — she continued excitedly now, — “that 
dreadful man with the whip in his hand, and I am run- 
ning out into the alley, trying to get away from him, 
and there is a great crowd of people stopping and star- 
ing, and then suddenly I look up, and see Dakie standing 
there with a great pity in his eyes, and I run toward 
them, and he bends right down and lifts me up in his 
arms, and just then the man comes forward, threatening 
and swearing at us both, and I cling to Dakie, and he 
isn’t one bit afraid; he clenches his fist at the man and 
tells him to dare to come a step farther, and that scares 
him, and the people look kind and pitiful on me, and 
they praise Dakie and threaten to horsewhip the man. 
And afterward there is a good deal of talk, and Dakie 
tries to comfort me, and when he finds I don’t belong to 
anybody, he carries me right away, and the people cheer 
him, and he never once sets me down until we are in 
Mrs. Bray’s sitting-room.” 

The child’s heart was going fast; the tears were 
streaming over her cheeks. 

Tom drew his arm about Daisy ; he comforted her as 
a man can, in his strong, tender way, when his whole 
heart is touched for some innocent, helpless thing. 

“Now you have told me all this, Daisy, you must put 
it away from you, as one does a nightmare when one 
wakes out of the black, ugly thing into the bright morn- 
ing-sunshine and finds the birds singing and all the old, 
familiar sights at hand,” 


212 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


The smiles broke suddenly into Daisy’s tear-stained 
face; she brushed away the curls, which had fallen over 
her cheeks. “ It has been just like that with me ever 
so many times,” she said. “I’ve waked up, and the 
world was so beautiful and people were so dear and kind 
that I forgot all about the nightmare. I sometimes 
wonder if, when folks have had a hard, cruel time in 
this world, and then die, they don’t find just such a 
happy waking up in heaven.” 

“We will hope they do, Daisy.” 

A little later she was saying very earnestly: “I don’t 
know what made me tell you all this, Mr. Tom, — on 
my birthday, too ! ” 

“ But you will never be sorry that you did tell me, I 
hope.” 

“ Oh, no ! I shall always be glad ; I think it has done 
me good.” 

Afterward Tom led the conversation into a different 
vein, and Daisy responded with all the joyous elasticity 
of childhood. She confided to him, with immense de- 
light, all the plans and preparations, so far as she had 
been taken into the secret, for her birthday. His com- 
ments, his droll remarks, his ignorance, either real or 
feigned, of the simplest matters connected with the 
occasion, threw her into transports of merriment. 

At last a message came for Daisy. It was time to pre- 
pare for the festival. Tom lifted her from the seat, and, 
with her hand in his, they returned together to the house. 


DAKE CRAMLEY’S DECISION 


213 


XXV 

DAKE CRAMLEY’s DECISION 

That birthday celebration will always be memorable, 
for several reasons which have never crossed his lips, 
to Dake Cramley. 

He had come down from Branch Woods, where he had 
been much in demand of late as assistant superintendent 
in the new mills of Meredith, Max, and Company; he 
had hurried out to Bed Knolls in order to be in time for 
the entertainment. It was late in the afternoon when 
he arrived, but he learned at the house that Daisy was 
somewhere in the grounds with Tom Draycott, and at 
once set off in search of them. 

A sound of voices drew him after a little while, in the 
right direction; he approached, with stealthy steps, the 
reach of low, sunny bank with its bordering raspberry 
hedges; his grave black eyes twinkled with merriment; 
he was about to surprise the pair. They were much 
absorbed in their talk and did not hear his approach 
between the long lines of ancient currant-bushes; they 
did not perceive him even when he appeared in full view 
on their left; they had risen by this time and were sit- 
ting on a low rustic bench. The confidential talk into 
which Daisy had been surprised was over now, but the 
feeling which it had called out on both sides, was still 
expressed in their attitude and manner. Daisy had 


214 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


nestled close to Tom Draycott; he was looking down 
on her with a manly, protecting air which had a touch 
of tenderness that her recent disclosures would have gone 
far to explain. On her part, she was gazing up at him, 
her great eyes radiant with happiness. 

Dake Cramley stopped. The smile ceased to twinkle in 
his eyes; he stood several minutes, unaware that he was 
listening to the talk which concerned itself with the 
birthday party and related matters. It could never have 
entered his mind that Daisy would have anything to say 
to Tom Draycott which was not for him to hear. It was 
simply the attitude and expression of the two, and noth- 
ing in the conversation which he overheard, that brought 
young Cramley to that sudden halt. When, a few 
moments later, he stole away, nobody had suspected his 
proximity. 

He went off among some tall shrubbery on the edge of 
the grounds, — he had learned every inch of Red Knolls 
by heart; he walked back and forth, and, with all his 
keen instinct and alert senses for every phase of outdoor 
life, he was wholly unobservant now of that glorious 
world about him; his face was grave with the gravity 
which belongs to the great, strenuous moments and ex- 
periences of life. 

For as he saw Tom Draycott’s fine head bent down 
that he might not lose a syllable of the soft bright prat- 
tle, and as he caught the radiant happiness of Daisy’s 
upward look, the thought had flashed across him that 
these two might some time be all that man and woman 
can be to each other. 

It was such a novel idea, he was so utterly unprepared 
for it, that for a moment it almost took his breath away. 
But now, as he paced the thick shrubbery shadows in 


DAKE CRAMLEY’S DECISION 


215 


the late May afternoon, he was slowly bringing himself 
to face the idea, and all that it must mean for himself. 

His first sense — it could not be otherwise — was that 
of an immeasurable loss. Could he give her up — his 
own Daisy — the joy of his life — she who had come into 
his heart, a very angel of God, when the fiends were after 
him, and they had shrank, cowed and defeated, before 
that innocent child-presence? It had always been a ques- 
tion in his own mind, when he looked back to that time, 
whether he could have kept up the fight, even with all 
Tom Draycott’s help, if that other influence, so unlike, 
and yet so compelling, had not entered his life. 

Daisy was so interwoven with it now, so much a part 
of every day’s comings and goings, so associated with all 
events and happenings, that it seemed impossible for 
him, even in thought, to set her apart from their common 
life. Indeed, he had taken it as much for granted that 
Daisy and he would always be together, as he had that 
the sun would shine and the winds blow in those years 
to which he was looking forward. 

As for Daisy herself, the time when she would be a 
woman, still seemed aeons off to her imagination. Dake 
was certain that an idea of their living apart had never 
entered her mind, and that the suggestion would over- 
whelm her with grieved amazement. 

Cramley was a young man, and his perspective of the 
future had reached farther than Daisy’s; he had occa- 
sionally dreamed of a time when the child should have 
bloomed into the lovely woman, when he might venture 
to speak to her of another love, which had its roots, deep 
and strong, in their common past. One illuminating 
moment had shown him how tenaciously he had cher- 
ished the idea that such an hour was awaiting them both. 


216 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

“ Could he abandon it? Could he give her up?” he 
asked himself again. “ Give all she was to him now, all 
she promised to be, even to the friend he loved best, to 
whom he owed everything that he was to-day?” 

The thought made him stop short for a moment, set 
his teeth hard, and grind his heel in the sod as though 
something was wrenching at soul and body. 

But before he resumed his walk, he knew this was the 
very thing he would do. It would mean a pain, a sacri- 
fice, of course, but it would not be so great a one — with 
his strong, practical sense he saw that — as though the 
knowledge had taken him unprepared. 

The thing itself might, of course, never happen. With 
all Draycott’ s fondness for Daisy, Dake was certain such 
an idea had never crossed his mind. It probably would 
not for the present, and meanwhile there were many 
chances that some other woman might enter Tom’s life; 
his thought glanced at the difference in their ages, but 
the next moment he saw that fact would, unless some- 
thing else interposed, make no more difference with 
Draycott than it would with himself. 

Dake Cramley had not a doubt that he was the dearest 
thing in the world to Daisy Boss. She proved this 
indubitably in a thousand ways ; but he was conscious, 
too, that in certain directions, without ever putting the 
faintest thought in her child-brain, he could exert some 
influence for his friend. 

“Yes,” drawing himself up, and a sudden light break- 
ing into the seriousness of his eyes, “ he would accustom 
himself to look upon this thing as a possibility. He 
would give Daisy — his own Daisy — to Tom Draycott ! 
That should be his free, glad gift for all the infinite debt 
he owed his friend. And Daisy — all the child was — 


DAKE CRAMLEY’s DECISION 


217 


all the woman would be, ” Dake said proudly to himself, 
“ would be ample reward — even for Tom Draycott ! ” 

Then he fell to thinking what a splendid couple they 
would make. He smiled to himself over a vision that 
rose in his mind. He said to himself, too, that he was 
an ordinary, commonplace fellow in comparison with that 
elegant Tom Draycott. Of course Daisy, with her in- 
stincts and tastes, must see and feel the difference. 

At last Dake glanced at his watch, and found, to his 
dismay, there was barely time to indue himself in his 
dress-suit, which he had provided for this occasion. 

The birthday party was as simple as it was delightful 
an affair. The only guests were Dake Cramley and 
Mrs. Bray, with half a dozen of Daisy’s classmates. 

The little girl herself, the central figure of the occa- 
sion, looked very lovely in her white dress with rose- 
pink ribbons and scarf, and carried herself as though she 
had been familiar with birthday festivals all her life. 

The presents — that supreme surprise to Daisy — were 
bestowed on a table in the drawing-room alcove. These 
were simple, and none of them costly, because they were 
the gifts of sensible and refined people, who, had they 
been the possessors of millions, would have had some 
higher motive in their choice than commercial values. 
But every present had some beauty in itself and would 
have some dainty use, some graceful association, which 
was infinitely better than an expensive trifle, selected 
less for the child’s sake than to gratify the personal 
vanity of the givers. 

The party was under the special auspices of Dorothy 
Draycott, but the young men did their share admirably, 
and when the banquet was over, and the gifts displayed, 
there were games on the lawn and swings for Daisy’s 


218 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

classmates, who, as they went sweeping off into the air, 
shrieked with terror and rapture. And while all this 
was going on, the last May sunset of the year ran up its 
colors, — crimson, edged with orange, and a great glory 
of gold in the west. 

If Daisy Boss should live to see a century of birthdays, 
she will never forget that first one. 

Dake Cramley will never forget it either; for it meant 
for him a change, a readjustment of something very 
precious in his thought and life. Sometimes, amid all 
the gayety, a sudden memory would start to life, and a 
shadow steal into his heart. 

But had the memory been ten times sharper, the shadow 
ten times deeper, he would never, from that day, have 
regretted the decision he made when he walked among 
the shrubbery at Bed Knolls. 


THINGS THEY SAID TO EACH OTHER 219 


XXYI 

THINGS THEY SAID TO EACH OTHER 

“Grace, let us have a walk together.” 

It was a week after the birthday party. Mr. and Mrs. 
Draycott were alone, the young people having gone out 
for the evening. 

The husband and wife went out into the June night. 
A breeze breathed in from the sea among the blossoms 
and dews, and all the air was alive with sweet odors. 
In the vast upper world there was a great flocking of 
stars with no regal moon to dull their radiance. 

They had walked for five minutes, perhaps, among 
flower-beds and shrub-bordered ways, when Mrs. Dray- 
cott surprised her husband by asking suddenly: “Well, 
Donald, what is it? ” 

“How do you know it is anything, Grace?” 

“ I heard it in your voice when you invited me to walk 
with you. I have been feeling it ever since.” 

“It will be a stunning surprise to you.” 

“ Make haste, — please ! ” 

“ Glenn was married last week ! ” 

“Donald! ” Mrs. Draycott stood still. 

“Her husband is Lord Elsbourne; he has inherited 
large landed estates, with an ancient country-house and 
a city home ; he was a widower with one son and heir ; 
his constituents have sent him twice to the House of 


220 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Commons; he is a Tory of the moderate type, deep in 
his fifties, a man honored for his intellectual force and 
character. Of course you will understand I am now 
quoting from Glenn’s letter. The wedding was very 
quiet. They have gone now to his box on the Scottish 
moors for the shooting. ‘I understand, Donald dear,’ 
Glenn writes, ‘that with your thorough-going American 
ideas, you will not be hilarious over a titled brother-in- 
law. Your feelings and convictions are not of the kind 
to be affected by personal connections. But I am sure, 
if you were to know my husband, you would find in the 
man himself much to like and admire. At all events, 
he was, after long reflection, my choice and — let a 
woman’s vanity just peep out here! — among many 
suitors. I have no idea that I shall ever regret my 
decision, but I shall most deeply regret anything which 
widens that breach which you and I know has, of late 
years, existed between us, Donald, my brother.’ 

“ This is the first time, you know, that Glenn has ever 
alluded to — matters.” 

“ I have no doubt those last words came from her heart; 
I have no doubt she loves you better than anybody else 
in the world, Donald.” 

“She took a strange way of showing it upon a time.” 
There was a touch of sternness in his voice. 

Donald Draycott had not seen his sister since her last 
visit to Red Knolls, which just escaped a tragic close. 
On her return home, her husband’s physician had insisted 
upon his starting at once for southern Europe, as the 
only possible chance for his recovery. They had sailed 
a few weeks after Mr. and Mrs. Draycott’ s return from 
California. Change of climate had, at first, a beneficial 
effect on the invalid, but in less than a year Glennis 


THINGS THEY SAID TO EACH OTHER 221 


Draycott Grayling was a widow. She did not carry out 
her first intention of returning to America. English 
life, varied by frequent visits to the continent, became 
more and more agreeable to her. The American widow, 
still in the prime of her years and beauty, must have 
found her social ambitions — a very strong part of her 
nature — gratified by the attention and admiration which 
awaited her in her foreign life. 

Mr. and Mrs. Draycott had been at home for weeks 
before they learned what Mrs. Grayling’s brief visit had 
meant for their young people. In the joyous days which 
followed the family reunion, Tom and Dorothy shrank 
from approaching the painful subject, but it could not 
forever remain a secret. Mrs. Draycott’s intuitions soon 
satisfied her that some deep trouble had been associated 
with her sister-in-law’s advent. One day, when weeks 
of happiness had softened the old memories, the whole 
came out ; Dorothy made a clean breast to her father, and 
Tom, taking much blame to himself, did the same to his 
mother. 

The blow had been struck where it would be felt most 
keenly by those who listened in shocked amazement. 
Mrs. Draycott gained a new sense of the possibilities of 
anger in her husband’s nature. He had occasionally 
confessed these to her, but he usually held them in such 
strong leash that she had hardly believed him. At that 
time a revealing flash of memory had set many things in 
new meanings before him. He saw that Glenn’s conduct 
could only be accounted for by her disappointment at his 
marriage, while she had other plans and had set her heart 
on another choice. Her resentment, visited principally 
upon Dorothy, had no doubt been intensified by his 
devotion to his wife. 


222 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


And he had never in all these years suspected! Donald 
Draycott was aghast at his own stupidity. 

His sister’s position at that time, in a foreign land, 
with a dying husband, had constrained her brother to 
silence, and her first allusion to the burning matter was, 
as we have seen, in the letter which announced her 
marriage. 

“ Glenn has found her place,” continued Mrs. Draycott, 
as they pursued their walk. “ What a graceful mistress 
she will be ; how perfectly she will do the honors of the 
ancient country house and the smart London home and 
the shooting-box on the Scottish moors ! She will seem 
to the manner born; she will enjoy all the state and 
ceremonial of that English high life. Shall I congratu- 
late you, Donald,” lifting her beautiful brows archly, 
“ that you have, at last, a brother-in-law in the British 
peerage?” 

He laughed. “ I mean no disrespect to that venerable, 
historic body, but when it comes to congratulations for 
any connection with it, an American — of the true type, 
of course — cannot forget that his country and his fore- 
fathers disallowed, in the most solemn manner, the very 
things for which it exists to-day.” 

“I know. But about this letter?” 

“ Of course I shall do the proper thing there, — send 
the stereotyped congratulations and compliments. I 
hope Glenn will be happy with her English husband and 
her ancient title.” 

“ 0 Donald, that is not the way you speak, when your 
heart goes with the words ! ” 

“I was thinking of Grayling at the moment. Poor 
fellow ! He worked so hard to amass that big fortune ! 
No doubt it shortened his days, and he never once 


THINGS THEY SAID TO EACH OTHER 223 


dreamed that it might go to support au English noble- 
man’s splendors. I hope his lordship has not married 
Glenn for her money, and that his estates will not need 
her tributaries to keep them flourishing.” 

“ One cannot help thinking of Grayling, and how he 
would have felt,” Mrs. Draycott responded, half to her- 
self. ‘‘But then, he is on a new stage now, where com- 
mercial values are not the supremely important thing.” 

“You are right. If he knew, he might not care so 
much now.” 

There was a little pause, and still the sea winds 
breathed soft among the leaves and grass. 

“Donald,” said Mrs. Draycott in a low, appealing 
tone, “when you write that letter, I want you to feel 
kindly as you can toward Glenn.” 

In a moment he said tenderly : “ I will try, dear. If 
it had all been done to myself, it would have been easier 
to forgive.” 

“But she could not foresee — what followed. And it 
was not Dorothy, after all ; she only stood, at that cruel 
time, for her mother. Glenn had cherished her long 
disappointment and bitterness until they maddened her.” 

“ And does the fact that it was you make the wrong to 
me a lighter one?” 

“ But it was Glenn who lost — what she had set her 
heart on. It was I who won. When I think of that, 
Donald, my bitterest moment has softened toward her.” 

He laid his hand on the arm which rested on his arm. 
“Well, Grace,” he said, after a little pause, “I will write 
the letter as you have asked me.” 

A good while afterward, when they had returned from 
their walk and were sitting on the piazza, while talk and 
mood were in another vein, Mrs. Draycott was relating 


224 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


to her husband various amusing incidents which had 
taken place among her callers that afternoon. Her 
report had the bright woman’s touch, the sprightliness, 
the feminine insight, the sense of the humorous, which 
made her talk a series of delightful character sketches, 
at least to her auditor. 

“0 Donald,” she was saying, between amusement 
and despair, when it came to one of her guests, “ there 
is something sublime in such self-complacency as hers. 
It is so absolute, so invulnerable! If Shakspere him- 
self, if all the company of the Immortals, were to gather 
about her, she would never dream they were conferring 
any honor, never doubt her capacity to entertain them 
fitly. How delightful it must be to have such an un- 
shaken conviction of one’s superiority to all mortals and 
demigods ! ” 

After the man had done laughing, he said: ;< But this 
sort of thing, you may be assured, my dear, is not con- 
fined to your sex. I am thrown every day with the male 
specimen who is so strongly intrenched in a sense of 
his own immaculateness, that I sometimes ask myself 
whether anything short of the crack of doom will be 
powerful enough to shake it.” 

There was a good deal of talk in this lighter vein, 
followed by one of those long pauses which are the bliss- 
ful privilege of the most intimate companionship. 

It was broken at last by Mrs. Draycott, who turned to 
her husband and said in a low voice, as one speaks when 
the heart goes along with the words : “ 0 Donald, I am 
glad I am sitting here to-night ; I am glad I am your wife ! ” 

He knew her too well not to suspect that the talk they 
had in the grounds had inspired this remark. 

“I think you cannot be quite so glad as I am, Grace; 


THINGS THEY SAID TO EACH OTHER 225 


but you must remember it takes a woman like you to 
make a marriage like ours.” 

“I am sure it takes a man like you, Donald Draycott! 
What do you suppose I could have made of it without 
you? Even after all our years together, I cannot think 
quite calmly of the chances and possibilities, the might- 
have-beens of our youth.” 

“Yes; I remember two or three most wretched days, 
when, in my idiocy and jealousy, I thought another man 
was coming between us. I was ready to go to the devil. 
Perhaps I should have gone, too, if that other blessed 
thing we both know had not happened.” 

“Yes, we know. But you would not have gone to the 
devil, Donald.” 

“Well, I am not so sure. But,” he continued fer- 
vently, “however desperate my case might have been, I 
should never have fallen so low as my rival.” 

“I don’t understand you, Donald.” 

“ I never could have solaced myself with the sort of 
life-long companionship he did! Think of a man who 
had talked of love to you, Grace, choosing afterward 
such a silly, shallow, conceited piece of femininity, her 
whole being absorbed in small social rivalries, in scandals 
and fashions! If he is satisfied, it is, of course, none of 
my business ! I should, had he acted differently, have 
gone through life pitying the fellow out of my own hap- 
piness. As it is, I have never forgiven him.” 

Mrs. Draycott laughed. “How fortunate it is that 
married people can say to each other what they would 
not to anybody else in the world ! Who would believe 
you could be so severe on poor little Mrs. Thorndell ! 
She, I know, would feel that her Romeo was to be infi- 
nitely congratulated on his change of Juliets.” 

Q 


226 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

Donald Draycott laughed again. “I am sure Mrs. 
Thorndell would never put the fact in that poetic way, 
although I have not the faintest doubt that she regards 
her husband as the most lucky man on this planet.” 

There was a sound .of light carriage-wheels on the 
drive. A moment later Tom and Dorothy were on the 
piazza. The latter cried out gayly : “ Here are papa and 
mamma, sitting like two young lovers in the starlight! 
You and I, Tom, will never follow their example.” 

“And therefore lose the very best thing in life,” re- 
joined her father. 

The young people sat down, and for the next half hour 
the air was merry with their different versions of the 
events of the party. 


FIVE YEARS 


227 


XXVII 

FIVE YEARS 

Philip Fallowes had been almost five years at 
Miner’s Rest. During this time he had never revisited 
the world on which he had turned his back when he left 
Colorado Springs. A variety of things had conspired to 
prevent his return, but the principal one was that he had 
nothing to justify to others his long retreat in the Rocky 
Mountains. As time went on, this feeling became, as 
was natural, more powerful with him. 

He was certain that the world, in its crude, off-hand 
way of judging, would set him down as a crank or a 
failure, if he appeared in it now; his pride winced at 
that thought. “If I could dazzle people’s eyes,” he said 
to himself, “ with a big fortune in possession or immedi- 
ate prospect, it would applaud me to the echo. As I 
have nothing of that sort to show, it is wise to remain 
where I manage to pay my toll and am not quite the 
unhappiest fellow in the world.” 

The concluding sentence expressed Philip’s genuine 
feeling. The Colorado mountain-life — its freedom, its 
expansiveness, its elemental force — had entered into 
the very fibre of his being; it had tested him in innumer- 
able ways; it had deepened and enriched and braced 
him, as the old life, with all its opportunities, refine- 
ments, and indulgences, could never have done. 


228 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


He had grown — of course the result must have in- 
volved a slow growth — to live year by year in closer 
and more joyous and fruitful fellowship with nature, 
among her grandest forms, her noblest architecture. 
All which had at first been alien and repellent to him 
in her unbroken silences and her vast, stony desolations 
had vanished now. He had drawn nearer to her heart. 
Something of her broadening influence, of her deeper 
harmonies, of her reposeful strength, had been revealed 
to his soul. 

But there was another life, more significant than that 
of nature, all about him, — a life virile, tumultuous, full 
of human drama, contacts and relations. 

Miner’s Rest had never experienced one of those booms 
which lift a mining-camp into world- wide fame, and, 
after a period of mad speculation and dazzling visions 
of enormous wealth, suddenly collapse and leave break- 
ing hearts and wrecked fortunes in their wake. The 
young town had, however, enjoyed a moderate degree 
of prosperity, and had much improved externally. Its 
principal thoroughfare now contained a new post-office, 
a smart business-block, and a schoolhouse, with an ambi- 
tious, if not ornamental, belfry. The shanties and log- 
cabins of an earlier stage were in process of disappear- 
ing, and the population had more than trebled itself. 

So far as Philip was concerned, there was no danger 
of the recurrence of the scene at Good-Luck shaft. Hun- 
dreds of men would have been ready to speak for him 
now, where there was only one in the earlier time. The 
change in public sentiment was evident when the orator 
with political ambitions, whose speech had been most 
effective on that occasion, took pains to treat Philip with 
special cordiality. He was a great favorite with the 


FIVE YEAKS 


229 


women. The feminine instinct was swift to detect a 
certain quality of manly deference with which he treated 
them. More than one young maiden, pretty, shy, with 
the quick, budding fancies of girlhood, had her carefully 
guarded little romance for the handsome, agreeable, 
manly young fellow. 

But in this very fact lay no small danger. Philip 
was many times the object of fierce jealousy among the 
younger men. Some of these had sworn in a frenzy of 
passion to have his life, and more than one had dogged 
his steps with a murderous gleam in his eyes. 

Philip had no suspicion of this. At his age, however, 
his fancy might have been allured and his feelings stirred, 
if one memory and one ideal had not come up in swift 
contrast, and made him insusceptible to other and feebler 
attractions. 

Jealousy, watchful for a while, having nothing to feed 
on, subsided, and maiden hearts succumbed to other 
gravitations. 

There is no doubt, however, that Philip Pallowes 
would have been a greater favorite with a large element 
of Miner’s Best if he had shown more of the hail- 
fellow-well-met quality; if he had joined the habitues 
of the saloon, and had done his part at the faro-table. 

One of these men, a bright fellow, whom he had just 
rescued from imminent peril in a mining-shaft, and whose 
face bore evident marks of dissipation, once expressed 
this sentiment in a frank outburst of grateful feeling. 
“ You’re a grand good fellow, Fallowes ! Every soul of 
us knows that, but, hang you ! you make us feel the con- 
trast too strong ! A man doesn’t enjoy that sort of thing, 
even if he knows it’s gospel truth. That’s where the 
shoe pinches. If you'd go in once in a while for the 


230 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


whiskey and gamblin’ and the devil generally, we might 
enjoy yon a little more if we didn’t respect you quite so 
much.” 

Fallowes had, of course, believed more than once that 
a fortune was within sight. Some of the ventures in 
which he had embarked, and which had swallowed up 
most of his available means, had failed utterly. But 
that fact had not one jot abated his anticipation of ulti- 
mate success. Every night he went to bed, after a toil- 
some day, with hopeful anticipations of what to-morrow 
might unfold, and to-morrow’s failure never made the 
next night’s slumber less sound and sweet. 

He had held various offices at the mines, which had 
kept him in funds for all his expenses. There had been 
no recurrence of the sharp financial pressures of the first 
year, but this was about all he could say. He was still 
much in the habit of prospecting by himself. Some- 
times, at the close of a day of fruitless labor, he would 
gather up his tools and apostrophize boulder and gulch 
and rock-walls. “You must have your treasure-chests 
sealed up somewhere about, perhaps just over my head, 
perhaps just under my feet. If you would only unlock 
one of these to my ravished gaze ! ” 

Yet he had moods, and many of them, when he won- 
dered whether a fellow who possessed so many essential 
values as he did — such splendid health, such joy in the 
mere fact of living, such a glorious environment of 
nature, and with funds sufficient for all present emer- 
gencies — had a right to bother himself about making a 
fortune ! 

He was occasionally thrown with men who were in 
the first excitement of some grand “find,” which prom- 
ised a sudden, tremendous change in all the externals 


FIVE YEARS 


231 


of their lives. Their behavior, at these crises, seemed 
always to him a fine test of character. Some would be 
dazed and dumb from excess of feeling. Others would 
be voluble, boastful, would swagger about, intoxicated 
with visions of coming splendor and importance, reveal- 
ing by word and manner the ingrained coarseness which 
the potential millionaire would never be able to mask. 
A man of a different type — haggard, weather-beaten, 
toil-stained — would take the good luck differently. “ I 
tell you, fellers,” he would say, wiping his forehead, 
and with a tremble in his voice, “this is goin’ to be all- 
fired good news to a little woman that’s kept up a stout 
heart, and some chicks, two thousan’ miles to the east’ard ! 
It means settlin’ up the mortgage on the old farm. It’s 
hung on like a nightmare, and it druv me off here in the 
first place. Oh, git out ! ” a great brown hand would be 
dashed across the eyes, and a big sob would tear its way 
out of a brawny chest. 

Philip, eye-witness to a good many scenes of this sort, 
wondered, if the time should come, how he would con- 
duct himself in a sudden turn of fortune’s wheel. In 
all these changed conditions, this rough, hard life, he 
did not forget the privileges and traditions of his past, 
— that noblesse oblige for which his Alma Mater was 
meant to stand; he kept up, after a fashion, some habits 
of his student days ; he read his classics enough to feel 
that he was probably not more rusty than the majority 
of his classmates; he was surprised to find what new 
illumination his later experiences shed upon the ancient 
pages, — what deeper interpretations, what larger mean- 
ings, what riper wisdom, he found here than in the old 
boyhood and undergraduate days. Sometimes, when one 
of the old Greek dramas had kindled his imagination, 


232 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


and he heard the winds sweeping down the mountain- 
sides with a roar like that of storming seas, he would 
throw down his book, rush outside, and, with a respon- 
sive, tumultuous joy, he would shout victoriously to the 
thunderous blasts and the watching stars, some glorious 
lines from Sophocles, some immortal passage from Plato, 
or, coming down to a later time and his own vernacular, 
something from Hamlet or Lear whose grandeur choired 
with the wild trumpetings of the mountain winds. 

Outside of his books, his intellectual companionship 
was intermittent and scanty. Occasionally, a Harvard 
man turned up for a short time at Miner’s Pest, who 
revived old themes and associations ; but none of his old 
classmates came that way. At long intervals, a Denver 
acquaintance appeared, who brought Philip in touch with 
another life, and who was amazed at coming upon him 
in such a remote corner. 

But by this time Philip had learned that great lesson, 
which is so hard for youth, — that alike in crowded cities 
and on lonely deserts, a man has, first of all, to live with 
himself. 

A change for the better in the fortunes of the Baynes 
family resulted, a little later, in Philip’s leaving his 
cabin and joining his friends in one of the new, two- 
story, frame houses which were rapidly supplanting the 
primitive dwellings of an earlier era. 

From the first, the Baynes family had appropriated 
their best chamber to Philip. Their feeling that he 
would bring good luck with him amounted almost to a 
superstition. It was certain that the position which his 
recommendation had secured for Abner Baynes in one of 
the mines, had been the source of the family’s improved 
fortunes. Philip at first demurred at the proposal, partly 


FIVE YEAES 


233 


from fear of giving trouble, partly because, with bis long 
independence, his inconsequent, Bohemian habits, he 
dreaded lest domestic rules and ordered times should 
prove irksome. 

But his friends had set their hearts on this matter. 
With his first visit to the new home, Mrs. Baynes con- 
ducted him to the chamber which had been arranged 
with special regard to his occupancy. The first thing 
which struck him on his entrance was the magnificent 
mountain view framed by the two windows. The cham- 
ber was furnished with a new pine set of the most vivid 
yellow tint, and the colors of wall paper, rug, and chairs 
seemed brought together for the express purpose of effect- 
ing the most glaring discords. But the subtle, indefin- 
able, home atmosphere was not lacking, and Philipp 
comment, as he gazed about him, “ Why, this is a lodg- 
ing fit for a king, Mrs. Baynes! ” entirely expressed his 
feeling. 

It was settled at that time that Philip should make 
the experiment. All preliminaries, including financial 
ones, were easily arranged. The three years’ experience 
of a log-cabin emphasized the attractions of the new 
home. Philip found the ministrations of a woman in 
his daily life very grateful to the domestic side of his 
nature. 

Bachie was in a seventh heaven of delight over his 
advent. The utmost good camaraderie existed between 
the young man and the little girl. They had endless 
frolics and long, grave talks, in which the opening mind 
and heart of childhood, full of eager questions, which 
often touched the profoundest themes, of pretty confi- 
dences and transparent innocence, were almost as delight- 
ful to Philip as they were to Kachie. 


234 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Here also came Benny Burrows, his curls as obstinate, 
his eyes as light and keen, and his old-man’s air as pro- 
nounced as ever. He and Bachie soon established a 
warm intimacy, varied by occasional sharp disagreements 
and quarrels, in which Philip — adored of both — had 
usually to act the part of umpire and reconciler. 

Of course the old spectres would sometimes rise up in 
the midst of this simple, homely life, which, in so many 
ways, was doing Philip good. He would ask himself 
whether he had found his rightful place, whether Miner’s 
Best could have been originally intended as the stage of 
his activities; whether he was living his life out worthily 
in making no higher mark, and setting himself to no 
loftier task in the world. He would not have been him- 
self if he had not felt at times the call of summoning 
voices, the spur of mounting ambitions. 

In those moments of questioning and retrospect which 
come to all thoughtful natures, one figure was sure, 
sooner or later, to recur, and as it stood before him, 
helpless and appealing, it always cast a deeper shadow 
over his mental landscape. 

It was years now since Caleb Crafts had vanished from 
Philip’s knowledge. The man’s disappearance had, of 
course, made a brief sensation at Miner’s Best. Philip’s 
explanation had had its reserves. “Crafts had started 
to try his luck in some camps far to the north.” But the 
saloons and sidewalks where his fate was discussed, were 
soon alive with other topics of interest. The brief drama 
of which Mullins’s had been the scene was, no doubt, 
occasional^ revived by some of the eye-witnesses. That 
event alone preserved Crafts ’s memory at Miner’s Best. 
Philip had heard from him two or three times after he 
reached Grizzly Gulch. The brief letters bore marks of 


FIVE YEARS 


285 


painstaking effort; the hand wa§ rather tremulous, the 
orthography imperfect. But it was an immense gratifi- 
cation to learn that no drop of whiskey had passed the 
writer’s lips since he parted with Philip. 

The letters ceased suddenly. After a while Philip 
wrote, — this time to the superintendent of the camp at 
Grizzly Gulch ; he learned in reply that Crafts had gone 
off with a couple of men — strangers, who had appeared 
at the camp over night — to a distant mining region, in 
hopes of improving his fortunes; he had left no address, 
and there was no clue to his present whereabouts. 

These were Philip’s last advices; he had long cher- 
ished a hope that he should hear from Crafts himself. 
That scene at Catamount Curve had made a lasting 
impression; but as time wore on, and silence waxed 
longer, Philip’s hope grew fainter; he made up his mind 
at last that “ Crafts must have gone back to his old 
habits, and the poor fellow was probably in his grave 
by this time.” Philip’s hope died so hardly that he 
gained a deepened realization of his feeling for the man. 
Caleb Crafts stood as the symbol of his own saddest 
failure and sharpest regret at Miner’s Best. 


236 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XXVIII 

JESSIE REEVES 

About six months after Philip became a member of 
the Baynes household, he had a small windfall in the 
shape of unexpected returns from one of his earliest 
mining investments. As a consequence, he indulged in 
the most expensive purchase he had made since he came 
to Miner’s Best; he had bought of her New Mexican 
owners a small, hardy, full-blooded mustang. The 
creature was fleet as the wind when her blood was up. 
The fire of her desert and plain sweeping forbears 
flashed in her eyes. 

It was partly to enjoy his new possession, and partly, 
perhaps, because the nomadic instinct, which marks the 
true mountaineer, had got into Philip’s corpuscles, that 
he decided to take a few days’ solitary trip into the 
mountains. But he did not intend this solely as a pleas- 
ure excursion ; he had heard very alluring stories of rich 
mineral discoveries far to the southwest ; he had learned 
to receive such reports with due grains of allowance. 
This time he resolved to see the ground for himself. 

The long trip was a novel and intoxicating experience. 
It seemed that hitherto unsuspected instincts and aspects 
of the primeval man had come to the surface ; he found 
a new ecstasy in living and breathing in that high, stimu- 
lating, delicious atmosphere. His route took him through 


JESSIE REEVES 


287 


a very solitary district of the Great Eange. No rail- 
roads had yet penetrated it. He followed dim climbing 
or descending trails, through bare, desolate gorges, into 
virgin wildernesses of hr and pine, and over stony, jagged 
ridges, where even Eoan — the name which the mus- 
tang’s mottled color had suggested to her Mexican owner 
— found scant footing. Philip encountered few people. 
An Indian or a mountain-trapper sometimes turned up, 
and he occasionally came upon a rude mining-camp, — 
a handful of huts and tents and smelting-mills. He slept 
in the open air, tethering his mustang to a tree, and was 
asleep under his blanket after a glance at the stars 
watching him through the boughs; he could understand 
now how many a young English nobleman, reared among 
all the traditions, refinements, and habits of an ancient 
civilization, would, when the primal instincts cropped 
out, cut loose and come away, to dwell with nature in 
her large freedom and wild mountain fastnesses, and 
learn the secret of her joy, the delight “of her wild 
tendance.” His imagination kindled at thought of the 
young state lifting her mountain pinnacles to the skies 
and standing betwixt the great seas which shook each 
day the eastern and western shores of a continent, as 
their tides leaped with the thunderous shout of their 
returning song upon the waiting land. It seemed to him 
tha/t of all her sister states, the motto of Colorado, Nil 
sine numine, was, perhaps, best of all. 

Philip was on his horse the fourth morning, long before 
the sun was up. He expected to reach by night the camp 
which would form the terminus of his trip. Two hours 
after he started, he rode into Trapper’s Glen and drew 
up before a long, low-roofed, adobe building which did 
service for an inn. It disclosed a row of uncurtained 


238 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


windows, while everything before the house struck him 
as singularly bare and unattractive. Philip, however, 
was hungry and not disposed to be fastidious. After 
he alighted, he glanced over the landscape. Trapper’s 
Glen was a long, narrow valley between gray rock-walls, 
which rose sheer and treeless to their ragged sky-line. 

“I hope the grub inside will prove more attractive 
than the surroundings,” Philip reflected, as he turned 
toward the hostelry. 

The door opened into a long, narrow, very dingy apart- 
ment. A bar occupied the front, and at the farther end 
of the room several persons were seated at the breakfast 
table. 

A small, dull-eyed, flabby-faced man stood behind the 
counter, with a row of fresh-washed glasses in front of 
him. A glance showed that he was, even at this early 
hour, in the first stages of his daily inebriety. He 
received Philip’s orders, which included a breakfast for 
himself and feed for his mustang, with a stolid air, 
mumbled something in his throat, and pointed to the 
table. 

Philip joined his fellow-travellers. The appointments 
were primitive, the atmosphere was redolent of frying 
ham, whiskey, and boiling coffee, but Philip was uncon- 
scious of these; his attention was now engrossed by the 
men before him; he had long ago acquired the Western 
habit of making up his mind promptly about the people 
with whom he came in contact. In two minutes he was 
satisfied that he probably had never sat down to break- 
fast with three bigger scoundrels. 

They were evidently of different types and races, but 
each belonged to the class of pioneer desperado; each 
had a hard, evil expression ; each bold, defiant, or treach- 


JESSIE REEVES 


239 


erous eyes; each had probably played his part in the 
wildest and worst scenes of frontier experience; each, 
in his roving, devil-may-care life, might have turned his 
hand to whatever wickedness came in his way, — to stop- 
ping trains or holding up stages, in intervals of trapping 
wild beasts and fighting Indians. 

Philip perceived that these men included different 
nationalities. One, he judged, was an American; he 
had a more intelligent face, and evidently a larger 
acquaintance with the world than his companions. 
Philip fancied that he would show the coolest nerve and 
probably be the biggest villain of the lot, if occasion 
offered; he was also the best-looking, the best-dressed, 

— the kind of man a raging mob would be likely to 
choose for its ringleader. The one who sat next, with 
coarse mouth and dark, furtive eyes, must have come 
from another stock, — French, with perhaps a strain of 
Indian blood. The third was unmistakably a Mexican, 

— small, wiry, sallow-skinned; his bowie-knife and re- 
volver were new and conspicuous ; Philip saw the lurk- 
ing demon behind the sly, suspicious glance. 

The men regarded the new-comer curiously. In such 
society, it was best to be on one’s guard, and Philip 
saluted the men in the frank fashion of Western eti- 
quette; to which they responded promptly. He was 
conscious, however, of undergoing, during the next few 
moments, a rapid scrutiny. They were all well armed. 
The next reflection could not have been reassuring. “I 
presume you are making up your minds whether it would 
pay to follow on my track, waylay, and shoot me within 
the next hour.” 

There was nothing, however, in the young stranger’s 
appearance to excite the cupidity of these men. He 


240 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


wore a suit of dark-blue flannel and a sombrero, neither 
of which had been improved by his travels. They prob- 
ably set him down as “ another poor devil of a miner, 
trying his luck from mountain camp to camp.” 

Philip settled himself to his breakfast with the hunger 
of a mountain traveller. The fare proved better than 
his first observations had led him to anticipate. Occa- 
sionally he exchanged a remark with his companions. 
The manners of that region exacted a certain degree of 
table sociability. Philip was alone, and, in case of any 
possible trouble, could look for no protection from his 
host. He felt he should be glad when his breakfast and 
his companionship came to an end. 

The door opened suddenly, and a young girl came into 
the room. Philip was aware of a significant glance which 
passed between the men. The girl stared about her with 
a shy, startled look. She evidently had expected to see 
some person who unaccountably proved to be absent. 
The American rose promptly, seated her with an air gf 
gallantry, making voluble explanations to relieve her 
perplexity. He stated that her friend had started out 
early to examine some curious rocks in the neighborhood, 
and would reappear shortly. 

Philip had a feeling that the man was lying with every 
word he uttered. But he could not help looking at the 
girl. How pretty she was ! Her clear young skin had 
a tinge of sun-brown; her eyes were blue as a rift of 
summer sky which gleams out between breaking clouds, 
and they had the startled innocence of a child’s; her 
hair lay in youth’s brown abundance about her temples; 
her face made him think of a wild mountain-rose; he 
noticed, too, the quiet, simple dress, — a shade of soft 
brown wool with some leaves and buds which made 


JESSIE REEVES 


241 


points of color among the ribbons of her small travel- 
ling hat. 

The girl returned Philip’s gaze, and the faint pink in 
her cheek heightened a shade. Then he grew conscious 
that the men’s eyes were regarding him furtively. He 
devoted himself to his breakfast. 

But meanwhile his thoughts were alert. How in the 
world had that young creature fallen into such compan- 
ionship? It made him shudder to think of it. It struck 
him that the man who had seated her at the table was 
making a rather ostentatious display of guardianship 
over her ; he fancied that, in some vague way, she herself 
was not quite at ease; she glanced several times expect- 
antly at the door. Why did her protector — whoever 
he might be — delay? Philip’s ears were strained for 
his appearance. 

At last, perceiving the utter hopelessness of getting any 
light on these problems, he rose, bowed to the men, who 
were probably well pleased to see him depart, paid his 
reckoning, mounted his mustang, and rode away. 

But as he struck the wilderness trail, his heart was not 
light. Wide earth and air and rejoicing skies had no 
power now to lift his soul to their mood. His thoughts 
and interests were full of the group he had left behind 
him in the low, adobe house, in the solitary glen. He 
was seeing that young, flower-like face, and the other 
faces — hard and evil — about it; he was certain that 
girl was as unaware of the character of her companions 
as any shy, helpless thing that walks, unsuspecting and 
fearless, into the snare of the fowler. The face haunted 
him ; at last it seemed to appeal to him, to reproach him ; 
he tried to put it away. “This was a case,” he said to 
himself, “ in which it was impossible for him to inter- 

B 


242 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


fere. The sensible thing, therefore, was to forget all 
about it.” 

In order to do this, he started up his mustang into a 
sharp trot. “We have to make a day of it, Roan,” he 
said, patting her velvety neck; but her fleet hoofs could 
not bear him away from that face, from those innocent 
eyes. Suddenly there was another face beside it, as 
young and innocent, but wholly unlike, — with great 
brown eyes, beautiful and radiant, with depths and sig- 
nificance of the unfolding soul behind them. If she had 
been there, could he have gone away and left her with 
those fiends? He drew his breath sharply; his hold on 
the rein slackened. Roan climbed with sure feet the 
dim trail among the black roots and the big boulders, 
while the little runlets twinkled and warbled among the 
wilderness ways. Philip neither heard nor saw; he ques- 
tioned and pondered. “ What possible reason could he 
give for his return? Those creatures would at once 
attribute it to the vilest motives! How, unless by a 
miracle, could he contrive to get a moment’s speech of 
the girl? If he did, what was he to say to her? ” 

He rode three miles. He drew up suddenly, glanced 
at the revolver in his belt, and pulled Roan around 
sharply; he had grown pale, and his jaw was sharply 
set; he realized fully all the peril which a return would 
involve ; but the mouth under the brown mustache had 
taken a line of deadly resolve. “ Whether it is for life 
or death, I am going back now ! ” he almost shouted. 
Then his voice took a softer key. “I am going back 
because I have thought of you / ” 

He put Roan through her best paces on the return. 
It was impossible that he should formulate any plan for 
future action; he would not allow himself even to reflect 


JESSIE REEVES 


243 


long on what he was about, lest the whole thing should 
seem too wild and absurd for any sane man to set about. 

But in less than half an hour he found himself at the 
point, just behind the inn, w^iere the wilderness sloped 
down sharply into the glen. Philip stopped just 
within the forest-line, to decide what his next movement 
would be. 

A sudden burst of laughter smote his ear. The mirth, 
close at hand, was loud, jeering, cruel. Philip at once 
divined its source. The breakfast-triad had left the 
house, and were having some private confab. He drew 
Koan behind a great, jagged boulder on his right, and 
dropped to the ground; he moved cautiously forward to 
the edge of the wilderness and gazed about him. 

Philip was not long in discovering the source of that 
hateful laughter. On his right, not far below him, the 
three men had disposed themselves in lounging attitudes 
among the underbrush and boulders of a low bank. A 
raised voice, an occasional gesture, satisfied him that 
they had sought this place for the freer discussion of 
some villanous plot they were concocting. Was it in 
any way associated with that young girl? There was 
but one way to find out, — one way, which, however 
perilous and unpleasant it might be, the circumstances 
certainly justified. 

Eoan had been too well trained not to stand where he 
left her. Philip moved forward quickly and stealthily 
over the moss and undergrowth of the slope, until he 
gained, unperceived, the shadow of a live-oak which grew 
close to the edge of the bank; he was directly behind the 
men now; he could catch words and oaths, with an occa- 
sional chuckle of hoarse laughter. 

Philip’s hearing was remarkably acute; he certainly 


244 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


felt no scruples in making the most of it now ; he leaned 
forward and listened breathlessly. 

Less than ten minutes later he lifted his head. In 
that time he had gone through with an experience of 
sickening horror, a passion of impotent rage, and a fierce 
eagerness for some method of swift, deadly vengeance, 
which had shaken his being to the centre. The plot had 
been laid bare to him in all the details of its unutterable 
infamy. 

He must save that girl, — he must save her; but how 
— God in heaven, how? 

His face was deadly pale; he looked about at the gray, 
desolate rock- walls, looked at the far, shining skies, and 
it seemed to him that all nature had suddenly turned 
hard and mocking and pitiless. His fingers instinctively 
worked at his belt. Then he remembered that he was one 
man, and they were three! 

The next thing Philip Pallowes knew, he was standing 
by Roan’s side behind the boulder. How he got there, 
he did not know ; but, no doubt, with an instinct of self- 
preservation, he had stolen away, undiscovered, from 
the bank. Suddenly — it could not have been more 
than three minutes after he had gained the boulder, and 
while he was making a desperate effort for self-control, 
so that he could decide on his next movement — a wild 
shout broke into the air. The next instant it rang with 
cries and yells. There was a trampling of feet, a rush 
of men, with fresh clamor and cry. 

Philip, peering out from behind his vantage-ground, 
caught a glimpse of a huge, black, unwieldy shape lum- 
bering across the trail. The bear-hunt was in full cry. 
Every man who heard it would join in the chase. 

This, then, was his chance l 


JESSIE REEVES 


245 


He waited until the uproar had died in the distance, 
leaped on his mustang, and spurred down the slope; he 
had no time to form any plans ; one invincible resolve 
possessed him, — to find that girl! 

This proved easier than he anticipated. As he drew 
near the inn, she suddenly appeared in the open doorway, 
staring about her as though startled by the hue-and-cry, 
which had swept off every man, even the drunken pro- 
prietor, in its wake. She still wore her hat and cloak, as 
though in momentary expectation of somebody’s arrival. 

Philip drew up near the door. The girl recognized 
him with a little start. 

“I have come back to speak to you! Will you come 
out here at once?” His voice had the tense, insistent 
sound which carries authority with it. 

The girl came — her face a little paler at that some- 
thing in his voice, at the look in his eyes. 

By the time she reached him, he was off his horse. 
There was no time for ceremony. “Will you tell me 
your name?” he asked. 

“Jessie Beeves.” 

“Well, Jessie Beeves, I want you to look straight in 
my eyes, and decide whether you believe I am going to 
tell you the truth.” 

She did look now, her face getting whiter, her eyes 
scared, but compelled by his gaze. “Yes; I believe 
you,” she faltered in a moment. 

“ Do you know those men with whom I saw you at 
breakfast are demons — that they are plotting to carry 
you off — that — that — ” 

A cry of terror broke from her. Then she burst out : 
“Joe will take care of me. Oh, where is he? I thought 
he would be back before — he — ” 


246 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“No, he will not be back.” Philip fairly thrust the 
words at her. “They have lied to him — carried him 
off — made him dead drunk long ago ! ” 

“How do you know?” she gasped out. 

Then, in a few words, he told her how he knew, where 
he had overheard the talk. 

The awful truth struck home now. She staggered 
and would have fallen if Philip had not caught her. 
Then the cry of her helplessness and terror wailed out : 
“ 0 mother ! mother ! ” 

“No, Jessie Reeves, your mother cannot help; she is 
too far to hear. It is you who must be brave, be a 
woman, now. Our only chance is in getting away before 
these fiends return. Where do you live — how far from 
here?” 

“ At Reeves’s Ranch on Rocky Bend. It is fifty miles, 
they said, from here.” She managed to get out the 
words, but her eyes were strained with fright, and her 
face was pinched and seemed to have grown smaller. It 
looked like a withered flower. The talk had not con- 
sumed more than three minutes. It appeared hours to 
each. All the time their ears were strained for the yells 
of the returning pack, though it was in reality unlikely 
the hunt would be over so soon. 

“ Oh, will you help me?” It was a sharp, struggling cry. 

“ My poor child, have I not told you that was what I 
came back for?” 

He stood silent for a moment, his thoughts taking in 
the whole situation in a flash, as men’s thoughts do in 
great crises of life. The stage-road, he saw, would be 
the natural course which the hot pursuit would take as 
soon as Jessie’s flight should be discovered. It led for 
miles through a bare and lonely region, with an occa- 


JESSIE REEVES 


247 


sional ranch-house, — sometimes tenantless. There was 
another possible way of escape, — longer and rougher, 
which wound, by a hardly distinguishable trail, over 
high mountain ledges and through dense wilderness tracts 
to Murray’s Cattle Range, twenty miles away. Philip 
himself, in a strange county, had taken pains to learn 
its topography, wherever he had stopped long enough 
for inquiries. That foresight was to stand him in good 
stead now. Once at Murray’s Cattle Range, — widely 
known throughout that vicinity, and of which he had 
very definite information, — they would be safe from 
further pursuit; he hesitated when he thought of the 
blind trails, of all the perils and roughnesses of the way; 
but in those very facts lay the greater safety. Few 
animals could hold their own long on that trail. But 
Philip had tested Roan’s endurance and sure-footedness. 
In that half-minute’s silence he had decided. 

“Will you go with me, Jessie?” 

She bowed her head; she reached out her hands. 

He seized the light form; he swung it upon the horse 
without another word. Then, before he set foot in the 
stirrup, he paused; he glanced at his revolver. When 
he spoke, his face was almost as white as the girl’s. 
“ They will make no more of shooting me than the wild 
beast they’re after; but you — ” his lips twitched — “I 
could not bear to die and leave you with those wretches, 
Jessie! ” 

She understood. A sudden courage flashed in the 
scared eyes. The little, pinched face grew firm. “You 
must shoot me, too!” she said, and this time her voice 
did not falter. 

Philip vaulted before her on the mustang; he needed 
a free hand with Roan. 


248 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“ It will be a rough ride for you, but you must not be 
afraid; you must hold fast to me.” 

Jessie Reeves was a slender girl, but Roan was con- 
scious of the double load and turned her head. Philip 
stroked her neck, said some soothing words, and gave 
her the spur ; she leaped at the familiar voice and touch ; 
she took the trail with a race before her, swifter and 
harder than she had ever known. It bore to the south- 
west, over narrow ledges, by sheer precipices, and on 
dizzying brinks of dark abysses and among primeval 
wildernesses, and this time Roan had double lives to 
carry. 

It was nine o’clock when they left Trapper’s Glen. 
The stage was due at Murray’s Range at one. 

On, on, now, in the name of all that is sweet and 
tender and sacred in girlhood, of all that is true and 
brave and helpful in manhood — on, and God-speed ! 


FROM TRAPPER’S GLEN TO MURRAY'S RANGE 249 


XXIX 

FROM TRAPPER’S GLEN TO MURRAY’S RANGE 

It was a little after one o’clock when a small roan 
mustang, with a couple of riders, — a tall, athletic, 
young man, with a striking face under his sombrero, 
and a slight young girl, with a scared look in her large 
blue eyes, — drew up at the Murray Eange House, which 
was also the place where the stages changed horses 
and the passengers took their noon meals. It was a 
wooden building, long, ample, two-storied, and had a 
thrifty, home-like appearance as it stood in the green 
seclusion among the valley-meadows, the great, shelter- 
ing, close-wooded hills gazing down on it. 

But the riders who had come down from the little- 
travelled and very rough up-country trail into the valley, 
had no sense of the lovely landscape which greeted them. 
For hours, which seemed ages, that quiet Range House 
had been the goal of their hopes. They had made 
steadily for it over the blind mountain trails, through 
the heart of the dense wilderness, along the narrow, 
broken rock-shelves and on the edges of slippery chasms. 
The young man had first caught sight of the building as 
they rode out on the slope at the entrance of the valley. 
He had reined in his horse, turned to the girl, and 
pointed to the house. She gave a little smothered cry, 


250 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

and they looked in each other’s eyes. Neither could 
say a word at that moment. 

Somebody must have observed them from the house; 
for the girl had just been lifted to the ground when the 
door opened and a large-framed man, with a straw-colored 
beard, a pleasant twinkle in his eyes, and a clay pipe in 
his mouth, stood there staring at the two. 

“Is the stage in?” The young man addressed the 
range proprietor. 

“No. Won’t be in for an hour. Accident up the 
road. Word jest come down. Stage undergoin’ repairs.” 

The man had taken his pipe from his mouth as he 
vouchsafed this information with a husky drawl and 
with no superfluous words, while the strangers drew 
nearer. 

Philip’s eyes searched, for a moment, the face of the 
man in the doorway. Jessie Eeeves, on his arm, was 
liable, he knew, to drop the next instant to the ground in 
reaction from her long terror ; his question went straight 
to the point : “ Is there a woman -r- a kind-hearted woman 
— inside?” 

The man looked blank at this unusual interrogation. 
Then his small eyes twinkled. “Wall, stranger, if 
you’ve rode that up-country trail in search of the genoo- 
ine article, you deserve to find it. I think I can accom- 
modate you. Jest step in here! ” 

He showed them into a large, neatly furnished room. 
Then he shuffled off, and in a moment they heard his 
loud summons: “Hannah, you’re wanted — lively!” 

Three minutes later she stood in the room, looking 
at Philip, who was standing by Jessie, whom he had 
seated in a chair ; her face was rather flushed, like that 
of a busy woman; her fingers were a little dusted with 


FROM TRAPPER’S GLEN TO MURRAY’S RANGE 251 


flour ; she had not waited to take off her working apron ; 
she was stout and plump, and her face spoke for her. 
It was bright, helpful, motherly. 

Philip Fallowes and Mrs. Isaac Murray looked each 
other in the eyes a few moments. Before he spoke, she 
had made up her mind to believe every word he said, and 
he was satisfied that this was the woman he had asked 
for. 

“I suppose this is Mrs. Murray?” he said. 

“Yes; my husband said you wanted — some one.” 

“ A kind-hearted woman I said.” He turned now to 
Jessie. “ We have come through a great peril. I think 
you would rather hear the story from her. She needs a 
woman’s care now. Will you see to her, Mrs. Murray, 
while I look after my horse?” 

Mrs. Murray had carried Jessie to her room; had put 
her arms about her, and said in her kindly, straightfor- 
ward way : “ My dear child, tell me all about it ! ” 

In broken sentences, with sobs and shudders, the last 
hours were all gone over again. 

Living where she did, with the stage bringing twice a 
day to her door some tang of the wild, frontier life, Mrs. 
Hannah Murray was a brave woman, and did not go into 
hysterics as she listened; she was able to soothe and 
comfort Jessie, even while she was sickening inwardly 
at her -tale. 

“ Could he be a man — just, do you think?” the girl 
asked, clinging to the woman. 

“What do you mean, my dear?” 

“Sometimes I wondered if he wasn’t an angel. To 
come back again to save me after he had only seen me a 
few moments at the breakfast table — a girl he had never 
even spoken to ! It isn’t like men to do that, you know. 


252 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT*S TO-MORROWS 


And those dreadful places we came over! Sometimes he 
had to hold me on with one hand and guide the horse 
with the other. I should have fallen off into those black 
chasms if I had not shut my eyes tight. Sometimes he 
would turn round and say: ‘Keep up a brave heart, 
Jessie! I think we shall pull through.’ All the time 
I knew he was listening sharply for the yells of 
those wretches! Oh, I shall be hearing them all my 
life!” 

“No, you won’t, my dear child! You will forget all 
about them when you are safe and happy once more under 
your mother’s wing.” 

“And you don’t think he was an angel?” 

“Oh, no, Jessie! Angels don’t go about in sombreros 
and flannel shirts ; but he has done for you to-day just 
what an angel would in his place.” 

At that moment Mrs. Murray, glancing out of the 
window, saw the stage rolling up to the door; she looked 
doubtfully at the cradle where a chubby year-old baby 
had kicked off his socks and was crooning to his toes. 
After an instant her mind was made up. 

She left the room in search of her husband. “Isaac,” 
she addressed him as he came in from a talk with his 
cattle-men, “ I am going home with that girl ! The poor 
thing is all broke up and needs a woman’s care jest now. 
I won’t leave her until I place her in her mother’s 
arms! ” 

Isaac Murray stared at his wife, cleared his throat, and 
asked gravely : “ Hannah Murray, ain’t your wits got a 
little flustrated?” 

“They’re as sound as they was the day when I prom- 
ised to be your wife, Isaac ! ” 

Then Mrs. Murray related to her husband all she had 


FROM TRAPPER’S GLEN TO MURRAY’S RANGE 253 


just heard. He listened, his sun-tanned, honest face 
getting a fiery red, until at last his wrath exploded; he 
dashed his pipe against the -chimney-bricks and swore 
his man’s fierce oaths. “I should like to have a stout 
rope and every one of their precious necks under the 
biggest beam in my new barn ! ” He raged back and 
forth. 

After the range-owner had grown calmer and consented 
to his wife’s leaving, she said to him, appealingly: 
“ Don’t forget Dan, Isaac ! See he has his milk — warm 
— every three hours, and wrap him up to-night in his 
pink blanket.” 

As soon as he had seen Jessie Eeeves safe in Mrs. 
Murray’s hands, Philip had carried off Roan to the 
stable. Then, with him, too, the reaction from that ter- 
rible ride had its way. He put his arms about the neck 
of the panting mare, and for several minutes great labor- 
ing sobs broke from his chest. 

Philip was greatly relieved, when, after having done 
his best for Roan, he returned to the house and learned 
of Mrs. Murray’s determination to accompany Jessie 
Reeves to her home. He had intended to go with her 
in the stage and return the next day for Roan. But 
the young girl needed the woman’s care and sympathy 
which Mrs. Murray was so admirably fitted to supply. 

In the talk which took place between the two while 
the stage-passengers were dining, Mrs. Murray gave 
Philip both of her warm, helpful hands. “If my boy in 
the cradle there,” she said, “should grow up to be such 
a young man as you have proved yourself to-day, I shall 
thank God for making me his mother.” 

Two female passengers were added to the stage-load of 
half a dozen men who left Murray’s Range after dinner. 


254 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


The men stared at the new-comers. One was a pleasant- 
faced matron, the other a young, shy girl with a pale, 
pretty face. A tall, fine-looking man assisted them into 
the stage and gave his hand to the girl. The passengers 
noticed that neither spoke. But those two silent young 
people would not forget their morning’s ride while life 
lasted. 

Mrs. Murray leaned forward and said in an undertone, 
while Philip grasped her hand: “ You look like a ghost 
yourself. Go straight home and lie down.” 

Philip appreciated Mrs.. Murray’s advice, after he 
had returned to the house, had grown suddenly dizzy 
and would have struck the floor if he had not caught at 
the nearest chair. 

The next morning Philip rode off from Murray’s 
Range. He did not see his host, who had been called 
away at daybreak. Roan stepped off gayly as though she 
had forgotten the hardest race of her life. Philip felt 
once more in splendid condition. All the world was 
rejoicing with him amid the fresh dews and sunlight. 
It was a good world — God’s world — and the demons 
would not have it all their own way. 

A memory suddenly flashed across him; a deepened 
joy shone in his eyes. It was she who had done it ! He 
felt — he was sure of it! If he had not thought of her, 
if that face had not come up and followed him when he 
tried to ride away, he should not have turned and gone 
back. 

He took off his sombrero now and waved it in the air 
as one might to some object of reverent homage. “It 
was you who did it,” he said softly. “How glad you 
would be to know ! ” 


FROM TRAPPER’S GLEN TO MURRAY’S RANGE 255 


Less than a week later, Philip was at Miner’s Rest. 
Two letters were awaiting him : he had left his address 
at the Range, and Mrs. Murray had written on her arri- 
val home. 

The hired man, — Joe Martin, — in whose charge 
Jessie had started for a visit to her uncle’s, had pre- 
sented himself in a distracted condition the day after 
the girl’s return home. 

Joe was a middle-aged man, perfectly trustworthy, but 
with scant knowledge of the world. He had arrived 
with his charge at Trapper’s Glen early in the evening. 
The two intended to pursue their journey next day in 
the stage which was expected to arrive before noon. 

After Jessie’s early retirement, the three travellers 
who had preceded Joe, engaged him in conversation. 
They had seen the girl, and they soon settled in their 
mind that her protector was the most gullible of mortals. 
No doubt they felt a profound contempt for him, when 
they found how readily he swallowed a silly fiction of 
twin rocks half a mile off, with a wonderful showing of 
gold and silver veins — some of them nearly an inch 
wide. A man who could believe this absurd story, would 
not be an obstacle in the way of any villanous scheme 
they might concoct. 

The plan for Jessie’s abduction had been laid after 
Joe had left his companions that night sitting about the 
fire. He had promised to join them early in the morn- 
ing, when they were to escort him to the twin rocks 
before breakfast. 

Joe Martin had been awakened by rough hands from 
his drugged slumber to find himself lying under some 
tamaracks where he had been dragged on one side of the 
highway after he was too stupefied to understand what 


256 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


they were doing with him. Threats and oaths were 
hurled at him. Pistols were pointed at his head; he 
recognized the three men with whom he had left the inn 
before breakfast; he was ordered to tell — on peril of 
instant death — where the girl had disappeared. 

His dazed condition, his helpless fright, and his evi- 
dent ignorance, soon satisfied the ruffians there was 
nothing to be gained from him. They held a council in 
which Joe — his wits gradually clearing — learned what 
a wretched dupe he had been, as well as the fact that 
Jessie had disappeared mysteriously from the inn. The 
house had been deserted even by its two or three women, 
during the excitement of the chase. Nobody was able 
to give the slightest account of the girl. 

One of the men suggested that the stranger at break- 
fast might have returned and carried her off; but the 
others, having seen his departure, scouted this idea. 
The most natural conclusion was, that she had been 
frightened by the hue-and-cry, and finding herself alone, 
had wandered out and got lost in the woods. She might 
have roamed far afield by this time, as it was now nearly 
two hours since the hunt started. The three set out in 
hot haste to scour the vicinity. 

J oe Martin had been induced to drink before he left 
the inn that morning, and the draught had been heavily 
drugged. But the terrible scene of his awakening had 
sobered him. He had penetrated the whole infamous 
plot for Jessie’s abduction. How easily it might have 
been accomplished, too! A plausible lie that Joe was 
awaiting her at a pretty park with flowers and faun only 
five minutes’ walk from the inn! would have beguiled 
her from the house without a suspicion. 

The man made his way back to the inn, where he 


FROM TRAPPER’S GLEN TO MURRAY’S RANGE 257 


awaited in intolerable anguish Jessie’s return, or that of 
her pursuers. 

They came at last, sullen and in dangerous temper, 
from their futile search. Two of the party were now 
more inclined to regard their comrade’s suggestion that 
the young stranger at breakfast had returned and carried 
her off, either by persuasion or force, but so much time 
had now elapsed that it would be useless to start in pur- 
suit. It was natural that a drunken carouse should 
barely escape ending in a deadly quarrel before midnight. 

Joe spent the night in distracted searchings among the 
woods and gulches around Trapper’s Glen. The next 
morning he set out for home, with a hope that he might 
die before he arrived there. 

When he crossed the threshold, the first sight which 
met him was the face of Jessie Eeeves, as she sprang up 
with a cry from her mother’s side to greet him. 

Philip’s other letter was from Mrs. Eeeves herself. 
It was brief and written in the first passion of joy and 
gratitude over her child’s escape. 

“ My Dear Young Man: 

My heart is full, for my little girl has been brought back 
safely to me. My hand shakes and it would be useless for me now 
even to try to thank you. But be sure a widowed mother will be 
blessing you to the latest hour of her life , that you — the stranger 
— came to the rescue , when there was no other , and the ravening 
wolves were after her child ! 

Ellen Beeves." 


s 


258 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XXX 

CALEB CRAFTS TRANSFORMED 

Philip Fallowes sat alone in his room in the summer 
dusk. It was now nearly three months since his return 
from his trip into the mountains. In the way of mate- 
rial values it had proved disappointing. 

Philip was lounging in his easy-chair. He felt more 
wearied, as was probably the case with a good many 
people near at hand, than if he had had a hard day’s 
prospecting among the mountains. The whole popula- 
tion had been carried away by an event the most momen- 
tous in the annals of Miner’s Best. That day, a branch 
of the Denver and Bio Grande Bailroad had reached 
a terminus within five miles of the settlement. The 
great world was next-door neighbor to Miner’s Best! 
The railroad, by all sorts of devious windings, by dizzy- 
ing climbs, and zigzag descents, by tortuous turns and 
wide loopings of its shining rails, had been making for 
years its slow, steady advances in that part of the Bange. 
The population had turned out en masse to see the last 
rail laid. There had been a grand jubilee. Beal estate 
had gone up by leaps. A grand hotel, with all modern 
improvements, was to be erected at once. Two hand- 
some business blocks were projected for the immediate 
future. 

Philip had gone with the crowd and shared the uni- 


CALEB CRAFTS TRANSFORMED 


259 


versal enthusiasm. He had listened to the speeches and 
applauded the orators; but now, after it was all over, 
and he sat reflecting in his room, he said to himself, 
leaning his head back in his chair : “ Of course the thing 
is there, under all that noise and buncombe — the high 
courage, the long patience, and the splendid engineering 
skill which achieved the miracle! I suppose I am the 
only man at Miner’s Eest who does not feel absolutely 
sure he will be rich before the end of the year.” He 
laughed a little to himself, but the laugh ended in some- 
thing that was suspiciously like a sigh. The doubt, and 
the darker mood which comes with it, even to hopeful, 
self-confident youth, had crept in upon his soul to-night. 
The Cui Bono of his life at Miner’s Eest had risen up 
now and was confronting him sternly. 

There was a heavy tread outside, and between, the well- 
known patter of child’s feet. Eachie’s black eyes danced 
in the doorway. Behind her stood a tall stranger with 
iron-gray hair and beard. Philip’s first regard, as she 
moved away, took in a very bright crimson necktie and 
broadcloth, superfine and of the latest fashion. 

“Your name is Fallowes, I believe?” interrogated the 
Unknown, with a prolonged, curious stare. 

“ Yes, but — really, you have the advantage of me, sir.” 

“You don’t know me, then?” It struck Philip there 
was a little pleased note in the voice. The dusk had 
deepened by this time. 

“Ho — begging your pardon — I do not.” 

“Wall, sir, I’ve come here on some private business 
which concerns you as much as myself. It ain’t the 
sort which can be transacted in a hurry, and I calkilate 
it’s goin’ to take your breath away a leetle before we git 
through.” 


260 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


This speech, and a kind of assured familiarity in the 
manner, puzzled Philip. The flaming necktie and the 
superfine broadcloth made, on first glance, rather against 
the stranger. Was he some new species of crank? In 
the midst of these reflections, Philip drew a chair forward. 

The two men sat down ; the elder folded his arms and 
crossed his legs, like one who enjoyed his host’s com- 
plete obfuscation. “ S’pose you take a good square look 
at me now,” he said, after a little silence. 

“ That is precisely what I have been doing for the last 
two minutes ! ” 

“ You don’t mean to tell me, Fallowes, you ain’t no 
idee who I am?” 

“Not the slightest, sir.” 

“ Yet it ain’t the first time we’ve talked together by a 
long shot.” 

There was a little tremble in the slight drawl of the 
voice. It struck Philip’s ear like the echo of an old 
memory; he continued his keen gaze a few moments 
longer, and then he spoke in a low, dazed tone. “It 
isn’t — you can’t be — Caleb Crafts?” 

“I’m that identical individooal! ” 

“Oh, my God! ” exclaimed Philip. 

The next moment both the men were on their feet. 

Philip reached both hands, but the man put out his 
long arms and held him in such a grasp that, even in that 
moment, he felt he had gained a new conception of what 
hunters had told him of a bear’s hug. 

“Crafts,” said Philip, when he was released, “I think 
I must be, at this instant, the most astounded man in 
the world ! ” 

They sat down again. Philip devoured the man with 
his eyes. How often he had thought of him — of what 


CALEB CRAFTS TRANSFORMED 


261 


he had tried to do for him — with a sickening sense that 
all the hope and effort had ended in utter failure and 
defeat ! 

“I’ve pictered this hour lots o’ times, when things 
went hard with me ! ” exclaimed Crafts, and his lip 
trembled. “I’ve said to myself, ‘If you can only hold 
on and fight it out long enough, the time may come when 
you can go back and look him in the face and say, “ I owe 
it all to you, Fallowes ! ” ’ ” 

At that instant neither could see the other’s face clearly. 

During the next hour, Philip learned many of the 
details of Crafts ’s life since he had vanished from his 
knowledge. For a long while it was, to quote from the 
man himself, “ the toughest kind of work to keep soul 
and body together. He had done a heap of prospectin’ 
in various regions, but luck fought mighty shy of him. 
Of late, however, he had an idee that he had caught a 
sparkle of the genooine thing ! ” 

This reserved and rather ambiguous statement made 
little impression on Philip; he had witnessed the sad 
ending of too many confident hopes ; he himself had been 
too often disappointed, to feel sanguine over remarks of 
this sort. 

But the man before him was evidence of a change 
more interesting than any tale of rich finds and prospec- 
tive fortunes could be. There he sat — the poor, tremu- 
lous creature of the old time, with his slackened will 
and his dulled wits — now strong, erect, alert, his glance 
clear, his whole speech and bearing full of animation, 
intelligence, purpose. 

For one thing, he looked at least ten years younger. 
The expression of his youth had come back; Crafts had 
evolved into a good-looking man! 


262 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“All this fine dress quite puts my old toggery in the 
shade! ” remarked Philip gayly. 

The elder man laughed. “ I remembered who it was 
liked to see me in good clothes. I went to one of the 
crack tailors in Denver, and I said to him, ‘I want your 
finest broadcloth and your latest fashions! Expense 
ain’t to be a consideration.’” 

Philip laughed this time. But he was more touched 
than amused, for it was evident all this pains had been 
taken for his sake. 

Crafts’s gaze wandered about the room. “ You’ve got 
into putty smart quarters here ! ” 

“Yes; I felt rather melancholy one day when I found 
a big gale had knocked the cabin which sheltered my 
first years at Miner’s Best into a heap of old beams and 
logs.” 

“You don’t tell me ! Wall, you made a good exchange 
anyhow. It appears you must have had some tall luck.” 

“Appearances are sometimes deceptive, you know. I 
am here a tenant on sufferance ! ” 

Crafts looked mystified. Philip went on to explain 
how it had come about that he was lapped in his present 
clover. 

At the name of Abner Baynes, Crafts broke in : “ Oh, 
yes ! I remember him ! He was the feller who told his 
story — did it to the p’int, too — that time the mob was 
goin’ to run you out! I was present and heered his 
little girl pipe up for v you. That was a putty sight. It 
jest carried the crowd over on your side. Baynes al’ays 
seemed to me one o’ them fellers that luck was goin’ to 
be down on. But there’s no tellin’ who’ll git on top of 
the heap when it comes to minin’.” 

Philip assented heartily to this statement. 


CALEB CRAFTS TRANSFORMED 


263 


“ Then I understand Fortin has rather turned the cold 
shoulder on you ! ” 

“Her favors have not been very profuse, certainly. 
I have had to stand by and see other fellows draw the 
prizes. But this fact has not made me miserable. I 
have had splendid health, lots of good times, and gained 
a world of knowledge and experience, which I never 
should have done in an easier school. Of course there 
have been drawbacks. I suppose no man can get on 
without those; but when it came to the fellows who 
struck gold, — well, — I should have been mighty glad of 
a share of their luck, but I never saw the day I would 
change places with one of them.” 

“That sounds like you, Fallowes. You’re the same 
— a mite heavier and a shade browner, but as indepen- 
dent, happy, snap-your-fingers-in-the-face-of-the-world 
feller — that you was nigh upon five years ago.” 

He sat still a few moments after that, regarding his 
friend attentively, his eyes full of admiring devotion. 

Then he fumbled in his trousers’ pocket, and drew out, 
with some effort, a canvas-bag, evidently well-filled. 

Without saying a word, he leisurely untied the string 
and laid the contents before Philip. Then he spoke. 
“I want you to look at that — sharp. Take your 
time now!” There was something impressive in his 
manner. 

Philip bent over the dozen bits of jagged rock which 
disclosed themselves, with that keen interest which a 
miner always feels in a fresh specimen of mineral ore. 
His experience had taught him caution, but after a 
while he raised his eyes bright with conviction. “Why, 
Crafts,” he said, “these are very rich specimens! They 
have the true color.” 


264 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

“No doubt about that,” Crafts answered, with a quiver 
of triumph in his voice. “ But we ain’t got through yet.” 

The lower contents of the bag disclosed various nug- 
gets — some larger, some smaller — with a final stratum 
of gold-washings. Philip bent over them for several 
minutes with intent scrutiny. 

“Crafts,” he exclaimed, lifting his head at last, 
“where — how did you come across these?” 

Crafts stroked one of his long, thin limbs, evidently 
enjoying his questioner’s amazement. “You’re goin’ to 
know later where they come from,” he replied, with a 
kind of suppressed chuckle. “ That’s the special thing 
that’s brought me here to-night. But there’s a story to 
tell fust.” 

Then Crafts told it. It took him, with occasional 
questions and interruptions from his eager listener, 
until midnight. The story, in brief, amounted to this. 

After the long, terrible struggle had ended in victory, 
and Crafts found that he had mastered the appetite 
which had held him so long in physical and moral thral- 
dom, new ambitions and purposes began to kindle within 
him. As he looked out to his future with fresh hopes 
and resolves, one desire began to form itself in his mind. 
At last it superseded everything else ; it became a pas- 
sion with him. This was, in brief, to strike gold some- 
where — a rich vein of it — and then share the result 
with the young man to whom he owed his life. “ That 
gold, ” he communed with himself, “ must be somewhere 
in these Bockies. I’m goin’ to search for it, up and 
down, far and wide, high and low, and some day — per- 
haps in the most onlikely place — I may come upon it, 
and then it’ll be time to think of goin’ back to my young 
man with a show that’ll prove to him I was wuth savin’.” 


CALEB CRAFTS TRANSFORMED 


265 


He began the search, — never breathing his intention 
to a soul, — and for four years he kept it up through all 
sorts of hard experiences, privations, and disappoint- 
ments, sustained by the thought that he was doing this 
for the one friend he had in the world. 

One morning, to make the story as short as possible, 
his mule was picking its way down Graybeard Mountain 
in the northeastern part of the Range. It was in a 
rough country, remote from camps. Crafts usually chose 
such a region for his solitary explorations. He had 
been at work for several days on various portions of the 
slope; he had met with no success and his provisions 
were giving out. 

Graybeard Mountain was the highest of the chain of 
which it formed a link. Its walls were broken and 
wrought into a myriad of fantastic and ungainly shapes. 
It was easy to fancy the Titans might have made a play- 
ground of that vast rock-pasture and hurled, in frolic 
mood, or mimic battle, those large fragments at each 
other. Vivid imaginations might have made out battle- 
ments, bell-towers, and turrets in those rough-moulded 
forms, but the dullest gaze could detect in the long, 
fringe-like outcrop of gray, shining stone near the sum- 
mit, which rounded over like the top of a bald head, the 
special feature to which the mountain owed its name. 

As he rode, Crafts was pondering where he should 
turn next. In all his quest he had never felt so discour- 
aged as he did at that particular moment. 

His gaze was suddenly arrested by a cleft in the rock 
before him. There was nothing unusual about it, but 
he pulled up his mule and stared at it. 

“Now, Caleb Crafts,” he admonished himself, “you’ve 
wasted days enough potterin’ round and explorin’ this 


266 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

bare-ribbed old mountain! There’s nothin’ in it! 
You’ll make a fool of yourself ag’in if you get off your 
mule and set to work to another of them holes.” 

But all the same, and against his judgment, he did 
get off; he did set to work at the crevice. It widened 
under his strokes. At last he caught, down in the dark 
breech, a dull yellow gleam. Chippings of detached 
rock fell swift now from the fierce-smiting hand. There 
was another gleam, larger and brighter ; he caught the 
fragment this time and held it up and turned it round 
in the sunlight; he had learned to detect the marks of 
the true metal; he held out the piece of rock in his 
brown palm. 

“ Oh, Lord, ” he said, “ do you see that ! ” 

Then he buried his face in his hands and sobbed like 
a child. 

When he had grown calmer he looked at his watch. 
It was just ten o’clock. “I shall call it Ten O’Clock 
Mine,” he said to himself. 

The mule roamed at will over the rocky slope all that 
day; her rider kept his pick going until night; he re- 
turned the next day, and for several following days, 
deepening and widening the crevice. Occasionally his 
eyes gleamed over some fresh proofs that he had un- 
earthed a rich mineral lead. 

All this had happened months ago. Crafts had kept 
the secret of his find religiously. But he had subjected 
his specimens to the most rigorous tests. Assay after 
assay, with frequent chemical analyses, had given sub- 
stantially the same reports. When the matter was 
settled beyond question, Crafts had repaired to Denver, 
ordered of a fashionable tailor one of the most expensive 
suits in his establishment, selected a gorgeous necktie, 


CALEB CRAFTS TRANSFORMED 


267 


and set out for Miner’s Rest. He arrived, as we have 
seen, on the evening of the day when the town had gone 
wild over celebrating the near approach of the Denver 
and Rio Grande Railroad. 

“The assayists declare a gold-bearin’ vein like that 
ought to yield from two to three hundred dollars a ton,” 
Crafts concluded. “ What do you say to them figgers, 
Fallowes?” 

“ They are dazzling; they almost take my breath away. 
But I have enough left to congratulate you on such luck! ” 

“Congratulate yourself, then! Wasn’t I thinkin’ of 
you all the time? Ain’t I here in Miner’s Rest to-night 
for the express purpose of havin’ you set off with me 
early to-morrow mornin’ to stake out your claim next to 
mine? ” 

“ What a good fellow you are, Crafts ! I don’t know 
how to thank you for such — ” 

“Now stop all that!” Crafts rose, laid his hand, 
with a kind of solemn dignity, on Philip’s shoulder, and 
asked : “ What kind of man was it you wheeled up one 
night out of Aspen Holler? ” 

Late as it was when Philip found himself alone, he 
could not make up his mind to go at once to bed ; he had 
insisted that his guest should remain over night — a 
matter easily arranged with his landlady. The two 
were to start early in the morning for the scene of Crafts’s 
recent discovery. Philip, as he paced his chamber, had 
a curious feeling that he had reached a great turning- 
point in his career. As a traveller on a summit looks 
back and surveys the landscape over which he has passed, 
so Philip looked back now over his years at Miner’s 
Rest. A fortune in the most unlooked-for way might 


268 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


be opening before him to-morrow. There would be time 
to think of all that and of what it must mean to him 
later, but just now other thoughts and feelings would 
have their way. 

I think when one nears the end of the long life-road, 
those things which one will be gladdest to remember will 
be the kindly services, the helpful acts, the comfort and 
courage, one may have brought into other lives. No 
doubt one will wish all those had been tenfold greater, 
but one will be glad to remember. 

No doubt, too, Philip Fallowes had, in these years, 
done many a kindly service — more or less important — 
to those who came in his way. Some of these acts he 
would be likely to recall; others he had probably for- 
gotten. 

But there was a group of figures which stood out at 
this hour — which always would — in the foreground of 
his memory. 

This group included four people. Bachie Baynes, 
though she was youngest, came first, because she was 
associated with his earliest hours and his darkest expe- 
riences at Miner’s Best; he smiled over the picture of 
the roguish little black head and the merry hazel eyes. 
Close by, stood Benny Burrows, square and sturdy, with 
his obstinate curls and his keen, old-man’s head on 
his young shoulders. Then there was Jessie Beeves! 
Philip did not smile now! He was living over the 
memory of that awful ride from Trapper’s Glen to Mur- 
ray’s Bange! If he could only know the scared look had 
gone forever out of those innocent blue eyes! 

Apart from these stood another figure — tall, thin, 
gray-bearded, with more years than all the others put 
together. It was sleeping peacefully as a child in the 


CALEB CRAFTS TRANSFORMED 


269 


next room. The old scenes in the log-cabin flocked up 
swiftly now. And that man, — Caleb Crafts, — after all 
these years of search and toil and wandering, had come 
back bringing his. gifts with him. 

A great joy thrilled through Philip Pallowes. As he 
turned toward his bed that night, he could not feel that 
the years of his young manhood had been wasted at 
Miner’s Rest. 

The two started the next morning immediately after 
breakfast. Philip could not share Mrs. Baynes’s regret 
over her husband’s absence. Yet it was hardly possible 
that he would identify the alert, erect, smartly dressed 
stranger at the table with the Caleb Crafts he had once 
known. 

They took the early stage which was to carry them to 
the new railroad terminus. Nearly a day’s riding on 
mules would be before them when they left the last 
station. 

Mrs. Baynes and Rachie stood in the doorway to see 
the travellers off. The child sent good-bys and kisses 
after Philip as the stage started. 


270 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XXXI 

THE MOUNTAIN STATION 

Three months later a company of half a dozen men, 
including some Eastern capitalists, two mining experts, 
and a distinguished mineralogist, were gathered at a 
small, out-of-the-way station on the Denver and Rio 
Grande Railroad. The telegraph operator had just re- 
ported that the train would be an hour and a half late. 
The party was tired on their return from a hard trip up 
the walls of Graybeard Mountain, where they had been 
inspecting some new mining properties. 

The region was a rugged one, conspicuous for steep, 
rocky walls of reddish granite, for immense boulders, 
sharp pinnacles, and deep gulches. Parties of this kind 
do not attempt such journeys merely for pleasure or curi- 
osity. The report of rich veins newly discovered had 
been so well authenticated at Denver, that the company 
had resolved to investigate for themselves. 

The mountain station was a very slight affair. It 
consisted of two rooms, the largest containing a stove 
crammed with wood and going at full blast. A large 
kerosene lamp was suspended from the middle of the 
ceiling. A small table, a few chairs, and a settee on 
one side of the room completed the furnishings. 

Some of the party occupied the settee or chairs; others 
moved about restlessly, discussed the day’s events or the 
prospect of the mines. 


THE MOUNTAIN STATION 


271 


“ There is no doubt,” said one of the experts, a middle- 
aged man, with a brisk air and an intelligent face, “that 
the properties promise a fine output. The deeper you 
go, the richer the veins open. Of course it will require 
a big outlay at the beginning — machinery and men to 
get the thing into working shape.” 

“ There is the rub ! ” rejoined a man, large-framed, 
with a big, compact head, and a voice which had the 
authoritative note that voices acquire when they have 
long been accustomed to attention from their fellows. 
“We Eastern people have been plucked so often that we 
are shy of getting mixed up with these new ventures. 
For myself,” he continued, pacing deliberately back and 
forth, “ I am satisfied, after to-day’s inspection, that this 
is not another wild-cat speculation. The ground, I 
believe, will pay to open up, if it has the right sort of 
handling. I am prepared to do my part in setting up 
the necessary works, and all that. But when the com- 
pany is formed, the stock will go begging in Eastern 
markets, if it isn’t introduced in the right shape. We 
are tired of tall talkers and stock -boomers ; we should 
like to have a gentleman — all the better if he has large 
interests in the mines — to whom we can refer, and who 
will convince New York and Boston capitalists that he 
is telling the truth.” 

“ I am afraid that such a party will not be easy to 
find,” rejoined the other expert; he was liglit-haired, 
with a fringe of yellow beard, and humorous eyes which 
would have made one set him down as the jolliest of the 
party. “ The soil of human nature isn’t prolific in that 
genus. But I am satisfied this man, Crafts, who named 
the mine Ten O’Clock in order to commemorate the hour 
of his discovery, and who has a quaint down-east flavor 
in his talk,* is honest to the core.” 


272 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


The mineralogist, who looked like an athlete and had 
a bush of reddish beard and a thicket of hair of a darker 
shade, put in his word after a burst of hearty laughter. 

“ I had a talk of two hours with the old fellow to-day ; 
he has, with all his oddities, shown a great deal of 
shrewdness; he kept silent, got his claim patented at 
once, put his ore through tests that left no doubt as to 
its grade. I think, from the way the veins dip, the claim 
next to Crafts’s will show as rich an output as his own. 
It appears that this last belongs to a friend to whom he 
first confided his discovery; he brought him out here, and 
the second claim was defined and patented at once. It 
struck me that Crafts was more interested in his friend’s 
claim than in his own! ” 

“I have seen him,” added the expert who had spoken 
first. “ Met him when I was out here the first time — 
young fellow from Miner’s Rest. Why, it strikes me,” 
turning suddenly to the capitalist, “he is just the sort 
of man to confer with your Eastern investors ! ” 

“What is his name?” inquired the other, leaning 
back, with signs of weariness, on the settee. 

“Fallowes! I don’t recall the whole address; but 
that, of course, could be easily reached through Crafts. 
A fine fellow — Harvard man. I saw a good deal of 
him for several days. Not the sort to play any game of 
brag or pull the wool over your eyes. A gentleman in 
the grain, if I know one. If he can be induced to go 
East, he will give the right figures regarding prospects, 
veins, and assays.” 

Just then the party sprang to their feet. They had 
caught the long whistle of the locomotive through the 
clear, cold Colorado night. 


HOW PHILIP FALLOWES REAPPEARED 273 


XXXII 

HOW PHILIP FALLOWES REAPPEARED 

A shadow fell upon the paper. Tom Draycott, at his 
office desk, deep in some law-books, glanced up. A 
young, tall, bronzed man, dark-haired and mustached, 
with a face which had struck people on lonely plains and 
in crowded cities, was standing before him. 

Tom met the bright, eager gaze with a kind of bewil- 
dered stare. Then the stranger smiled. “Have I come 
so far to find you don’t recognize me, Tom Draycott?” 

With that voice and smile, Tom was on his feet. 
“Great heavens! Is it you?” he cried. 

I believe that if young Draycott had been anywhere 
but in a law-office, with people at their desks and others 
coming and going, he would, on the instant, have been 
over the railing and hugging that tall, bronzed young 
man! 

That afternoon when Tom returned home, he went 
straight to Dorothy’s room. The day had been warm, 
and he found her on a lounge in her dressing-sacque. 
She had a book in her hands, but its interest was gradu- 
ally yielding to the nap which was stealing over her 
senses. 

“ Put up that book ! ” burst out Tom, as he threw him- 
self into an easy-chair. “ I have something more inter- 
esting to tell you.” 

T 


274 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

She sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. With 
the flush in her cheek and the loosened hair making such 
a bewitching disorder about her face, she formed a pict- 
ure which it was a shame there was nobody to see but 
Tom, on whom it was utterly wasted. 

“Is it something very good, Tom?” 

“I should think it was — to me! Come! Gather 
your wits together ! Try a guess ! ” 

“How can I without you give me some sort of clue?” 

“ Somebody turned up to-day whom I was enormously 
glad to see.” 

She looked at him reflectively. “Was it somebody 
that you had not seen for a long time?” 

“ It was — most decidedly.” 

There was another brief period of reflection; then a 
flash of intelligence in the brown eyes. “Tom, it was 
Philip Fallowes ! ” 

“You’ve hit the bull’s eye this time. He appeared 
at my desk this morning. When he spoke and smiled, I 
recognized him. He has grown some shades darker and 
perhaps an inch or two taller. When a fellow sees in 
what splendid condition he has come back, it makes him 
feel it pays to throw up things and go off roughing it 
half a dozen years in the Pocky Mountains ! ” 

“But why didn’t you bring him out to dinner, Tom? 
Of course we should all have been delighted to see him.” 

“I did my best. But before he left New York he had 
engaged to meet some people this evening on business. 
He has interests in some new mining properties — had 
a grand windfall, I suspect, after plenty of something 
very different. The discoverer of the mine is an especial 
friend, and Fallowes’s claim adjoins his own. That man 
must be a character! What do you suppose he called 


HOW PHILIP FALLOWES REAPPEARED 275 

his mine because of the time of day when he discovered 
it?” 

“The Sibyl herself couldn’t have answered that 
question.” 

“Ten O’Clock Mine!” 

Dorothy laughed. “Yes; that man must be a char- 
acter ! ” 

“His name is Crafts — Caleb, I think. Fallowes 
seems to care a great deal for him, and, I fancy, has 
some time done him a service or a good many of them. 
A company of Eastern capitalists has been formed, and 
they expect to get big dividends when the new find is 
developed. The claims lie on Graybeard Mountain, in 
some remote corner of the Northwestern Rockies. Fal- 
lowes is here on business connected with the company. 
There was no time to go into details.” 

Dorothy had listened to this recital with as much 
interest as could be expected. Now she broke in: “But 
what does Philip Fallowes say for himself? Why has 
he kept in hiding all these years?” Her tone implied 
some resentment at this neglect of her brother. 

“ He was dreadfully cut up by the death of his uncle. 
On top of that came the knowledge that everything had 
gone to the dogs. Two fortunes — Philip’s, I fancy, 
ten times the bigger — swallowed up in all sorts of rash 
ventures and wild-cat speculations. ‘Poor uncle Rad! ’ 
Philip said. ‘ He was not a business man, and he was 
shamefully tricked and swindled ! ’ Certainly, there 
must have been heavy rascality somewhere! It must 
have been an awful blow when the bolt fell — out of a 
clear sky, too. Fallowes turned his back on the world, 
went off into the Rockies, — in their roughest, remotest 
corner, — and faced his fate alone. It was tremendously 


276 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


plucky. A man in such straits doesn’t feel much in- 
clined to letter-writing. It was like Fallowes to make 
no sign when things were at the worst; he must have 
been a long time, too, in riding out the gale. Of course 
he did not say all this in so many words; but when you 
know a man well, his reserves may be as revealing as his 
speech. We lunched at Parker’s. It was like the old 
times. We talked over Harvard and the fellows, and 
Philip said : ‘ I have had a world of the old nonsense 
taken out of me, Tom. It wasn’t pleasant, at times, 
but I suppose that I needed heroic treatment.’” 

“I should fancy,” said Dorothy, in the light tone of 
youth and utter inexperience, “ it must be hard to live 
in a log-cabin, among all sorts of rough creatures — 
Indians, Mexicans, miners, pioneers, to say nothing of 
neighborly bears, coyotes, and wild-cats! Yet, when I 
read those live Western stories, I sometimes wish I 
could have a taste of that life — its wide horizons, its 
free air, and its delightful fun and hairbreadth ad- 
ventures.” 

Tom lifted his eyebrows. “That sort of thing sounds 
well in novels, but I imagine you wouldn’t find the bare 
facts so rapturous. However, Fallowes is coming out 
to-morrow night, and you can see for yourself what 
Western roughing has done for him.” 

That evening when Dorothy was alone with her father 
and mother she said: “Tom is in a seventh heaven 
because Philip Fallowes — I suppose we must say Mr. 
Fallowes, in future — has returned. I am heartily glad 
for Tom’s sake, that he has appeared again.” 


THE MEETING AT RED KNOLLS 


277 


XXXIII 

THE MEETING AT RED KNOLLS 

The next evening young Fallowes came out to Bed 
Knolls. Tom, who had been on the watch for his 
friend, met him in the hall, and, after brief explana- 
tions, carried him to the drawing-room, where there was 
company — some scattered groups of young people and a 
few older ones. 

Philip had sometimes, during the past years, wondered 
with himself whether he should ever be at Bed Knolls 
again; but he had never imagined that blissful event 
taking place under such inexorable social requirements. 

Tom led his friend to his father and mother. It was 
a singular fact that he had never met them. While 
Philip was at Harvard, he had received numerous invi- 
tations to Bed Knolls, but something had always inter- 
fered at the last moment to prevent his meeting Mr. 
and Mrs. Draycott. This occurred so frequently that it 
at last became a matter of jest with all concerned. It 
seemed as though some tricksy spirit was interposing to 
keep Tom Draycott’ s parents and his classmate apart. 

But the greeting which he received now from the 
noble-looking man and the beautiful woman by his side, 
was so unaffectedly cordial that an observer might have 
imagined him an old friend. 

The introductions were hardly over when a figure 
detached itself from a group of young people, moved 
swiftly across the room, and Philip Fallowes and Doro- 
thy Draycott once more stood face to face. 


278 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


Whatever the moment may have meant to him, there 
was no external sign of it; he no longer stared, flushed 
and dazed, as he had that day when he met Dorothy 
Draycott at Amoury Roost. 

She wore to-night an evening dress — in color, a pale- 
rose tint; in simplicity of lines, perfect to a refined 
taste. Philip took in, with an instant or two of flash- 
ing glance, all the changes — the added height, the 
refining, maturing processes, the indescribable deep- 
ening of expression, the subtle touches of womanhood 
— which formed a part of what the years had been doing 
for the girl he had parted from — it seemed yesterday — 
it seemed aeons ago — at Amoury Roost ! 

Then he heard the voice which had, for his ear at 
least, a soft cadence, an “ inner music ” of its own. 

“ I am delighted to see you once more, Mr. Fallowes. 
You cannot imagine what hopes I have been building on 
your return.” 

The hand whose touch he remembered lay for a 
moment in his palm. 

Tom stood by with a suspiciously grave face; he 
knew some mischief lay behind the cordial gayety of 
Dorothy’s greeting. 

Meanwhile, she was gazing, with a young girl’s curi- 
osity, at Philip Fallowes, trying to compare him with 
the young undergraduate she had met so long ago, and so 
briefly. Six years! Her thoughts flashed back over a 
world of pleasant scenes and happy memories. She had 
barely time to think that, whatever the West had done 
for young Fallowes, it had certainly succeeded in making 
him a big, splendid fellow, when he answered her 
remark in her own light key. 

“You are right, Miss Draycott; I can never imagine 


THE MEETING AT RED KNOLLS 


279 


what hopes you have done me the honor to associate 
with my return.” 

Dorothy turned at once and laid her hand on Tom’s 
arm. “ I have become such an old story here,” she said; 
"I have lost all my influence — all my power to per- 
suade or cajole. I shall look to you now for sympathy 
and support. Tom thinks your name is one to conjure 
with, Mr. Fallowes.” 

The young men exchanged amused glances. Before 
Philip could reply, somebody struck a key of the piano. 
A hush stole over the drawing-room. The next twenty 
minutes were occupied in listening to some very bril- 
liant interpretations of Wagner’s compositions by one 
of the guests. 

Dorothy’s attention was afterward claimed by others. 
The light speech had served better than a wiser one. 
It had relieved the tension of that first interview, with- 
out a suspicion, on her part, that any existed. She sup- 
posed that the chief interest she possessed for young 
Fallowes consisted in the fact that she was Tom Dray- 
cott’s sister. 

The party broke up soon afterward. Philip had some 
conversation with the family, and then Tom carried off 
his friend to his own room, where the two talked into 
the small hours. 

Philip Fallowes was at a certain disadvantage in 
Dorothy Draycott’s presence. She had been so long 
set apart in his thought and imagination; she had been 
in certain great crises of his life so deep and constrain- 
ing an influence, that it was not easy for him to adjust 
his consciousness of her to every-day .conditions and 
events. He was not, when they were together, quite 
his frank, simple, spontaneous self. 


280 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XXXIV 

CROSS-WINDS AND UNDERCURRENTS 

Three months had passed since Philip Fallowes came 
East; they had been very busy ones to him; they had 
involved much intercourse with a variety of people as 
well as frequent going back and forth between New 
York, Philadelphia, and Boston. This activity was con- 
nected with the Graybeard Mountain Company. Philip 
was often puzzled to define his exact status in that 
organization. It was not that of agent or promoter; 
yet his department seemed at times to include some- 
thing of both ; he was daily consulted regarding the best 
machinery and material for the new plant. Through 
one influence and another, evidently set in motion be- 
fore his arrival, he was brought in frequent contact 
with capitalists and conservative rich men, alarmed at 
the conditions of the stock market and seeking invest- 
ments for wealth that was lying idle. These people 
sought him out. Unsolicited introductions and inter- 
views became an every-day affair. Groups would gather 
about him in brokers’ and other offices where he hap- 
pened to be, ply him with questions, and listen with 
marked deference to his opinions. No doubt his per- 
sonality and his reserves had something to do with this. 
When he talked of mining values, he made no sensa- 
tional statements. He represented the true conditions 
and prospects, so far as it was possible for him to learn 
them. One reason of this was the disgust he had con- 


CROSS-WINDS AND UNDERCURRENTS 281 


ceived for the methods by which new mining properties 
were boomed and stocks were inflated for the Eastern 
markets. The wild extravagance of statement, the utter 
disregard of facts, the reckless dealing with figures, 
often roused his strongest indignation. Then he would 
sicken at the thought of innocent victims, beguiled and 
swindled by these baseless assertions. 

His hands, he had resolved, should be clean; he made 
it a point to discourage women from taking any mining 
risks ; often finding his advice had precisely the opposite 
effect from that which he had intended. 

Meantime, the development of Gray beard Mountain 
properties was being rapidly pushed forward. Settlers 
were flocking in. All the early mining processes — drill- 
ing, boring, tunnelling, blasting — were in full swing. 
There was boundless enthusiasm among the men who 
were on the ground, over reports of the assays and show- 
ing of veins. Caleb Crafts was there; his reputation as 
the discoverer and largest owner in the Ten O’Clock 
Mine made him an authority in the newly opened re- 
gion; he was overseeing the development of Philip’s 
claim, and had managed this so successfully that the 
latter had been able to meet all present expenses, be- 
sides having a happy feeling of independence in his 
financial arrangements with the new company. 

Crafts’s letters were full of courage, hope, and a pride, 
simple and transparent as a child’s, over his success. 
The latest advices brought a stunning surprise. 

As Philip opened the letter, something light and en- 
veloped in tissue-paper slipped down on the desk in the 
New York broker’s office where he was sitting. He 
glanced at the thing and proceeded to investigate before 
he read further. The first page explained that the en- 


282 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

closed photograph was that of the woman who, within a 
fortnight, would be the writer’s wife! 

Philip laid down the letter with a grunt of dismay 
which, had Crafts heard, would not have exhilarated 
him. “ Some artful female has got wind of his fortune 
and woven her toils around him. He is too good a fel- 
low to be caught in that sort of trap,” were Philip’s 
first reflections. “ I devoutly hope she won’t prove the 
sort of woman who will nag him endlessly and drag him 
down at last into his old ways,” thinking of some of the 
wives he had known at Miner’s Rest. He resumed the 
letter with a rueful look. 

Crafts wrote that the acquaintance had come about 
through the woman’s brother; he had been seriously in- 
jured by a break-down of one of the gallery-walls in a 
new mine where he was at work. Crafts had felt and 
shown much sympathy for the bright young fellow; he 
had come with his sister — a widow, a number of years 
his senior — to the new settlement in hope of bettering 
their fortunes, which were at the lowest ebb. They 
were living in one of the new pine-shanties at the foot 
of Graybeard Mountain. Crafts had managed to be of 
service to them in various ways. The sister insisted he 
had saved her brother’s life. 

Certainly, the young man was getting well. There 
was no excuse for Crafts continuing his visits at the 
pine-shanty. Then he discovered that the prospect of 
giving them up was the reverse of pleasant. 

“When I see her for the first time,” continued the 
writer, and his lapses in orthography are not repeated 
here, “I said to myself, ‘Caleb, that’-s an up-and-down, 
all-round, good woman ! She’s just one of the kind that 
the right sort of man could tie to and be blessed for the 


CROSS WINDS AND UNDERCURRENTS 283 


rest of his mortal life. ’ But I had no idea of anything of 
that sort myself. There were things to remember which 
would have risen up like ghosts out of the ground, and 
waved me back from ever daring to think that woman 
could be anything to me! 

“But one day — well — I’d somehow kept up with the 
visits pretty regular and we’d got better acquainted — 
though I can’t tell Jiow the thing came about any better 
than you can, Fallowes, when you read this — I found 
myself telling her what kind of man I had been, and who 
it was had come across me when I was at the last gasp, 
and how he had taken right hold and helped me and 
cared for and believed in and bore with me, when I’d 
lost all faith or hope or care for myself. 

“Woman is a curious creature, Fallowes! When she 
don’t want to believe a thing, she won’t, and she’ll find 
the most satisfactory reasons in the world, too, for not 
doing it! She stopped me right there, as I was stum- 
bling along, — for that sort of confession don’t come easy 
to a man, — and declared she never would hear another 
word on that subject. ‘I’ve seen the kind-hearted, 
noble man you are, Mr. Crafts,’ she said, ‘since you’ve 
been coming here day after day, and that’s all I want to 
know. Nothing in the past can change my opinion of 
what you are now.’ Then if she didn’t keep on making 
excuses for all the rest — said she considered a hanker- 
ing for strong drink a disease, at least, in some cases, 
for which a man was no more responsible than he was 
for taking the typhoid fever or smallpox. 

“ After that — I must have made bungling work of it 
— I didn’t know I had done it until I found it out by 
her blushes ; but I had — fair and square — I’d popped 
the question! 


284 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“ And the upshot of it all is, Fallowes, when you look 
on the enclosed picture, which ain’t by no means flatter- 
ing, yon will see the face of a little woman who would be 
ready to walk across the biggest half of this continent to 
take your hand and thank you for the sake of one man 
that owes her, and every other good thing he will ever 
have, to a certain happy, carry-the-world-before-him 
young fellow who, about three days later, will be read- 
ing these lines.” 

After finishing this letter, Philip turned, with very 
dubious feelings, and uncovered the photograph on his 
desk. The face which disclosed itself was that of a 
sensible, kind-hearted woman. The longer he studied 
it, the better he liked it. It was that of a youngish 
woman, not handsome, but with clear, frank eyes and a 
touch of smile lurking at the corners of her large, kindly 
mouth. There were some revealing lines which hinted 
at past troubles and anxieties. Philip suspected the 
early marriage had not been a happy one. But experi- 
ence evidently had not soured the original of that picture. 

Philip drew a sigh as he laid it down. For a moment 
he forgot everything — the spacious office where he was 
sitting, the hum of voices around him, and below, the 
great rush and roar of Broadway ; he was back again in 
his log-cabin, in his miner’s top-boots and flannels, and 
the winds were out at play in the Colorado foot-hills. He 
was surrounded now by the shows, the elegancies, the 
prosperities of human living. Was he any happier? he 
wondered. He had at times a vague, elusive feeling 
that something was lacking in his own life. 

There was no day in which he did not find himself 
longing for the uplifting presence, the solemn grandeur 
the expansive vision, of his Western mountains. 


CROSS-WINDS AND UNDERCURRENTS 285 


He slipped back the photograph in the letter with a 
smile. “That woman,” he said, “will be just the right 
sort of wife for Crafts! He needs feminine care and 
influence about his life, if ever a man did. I shall send 
my congratulations and a wedding present ! ” 

As Philip Fallowes w'as frequently during these days 
in Boston, that meant that he was frequently at Bed 
Knolls. Tom had exacted a promise that he would in- 
variably show himself at the law-office when he was in 
the city. The natural sequence was, that Tom would 
insist on his friend’s returning home with him. The 
household welcome which greeted him must always have 
satisfied any scruples he might feel regarding his recur- 
rent visits. 

But Tom was sure to quietly assume his right to 
Fallowes’s time and presence. Nobody felt like disput- 
ing this. Once in Tom’s room, the two young men 
would live over their undergraduate days, or Philip 
would relate scenes in his Western life, until the walls 
rang with young manhood’s shouts and laughter. 

But all this time, Philip Fallowes and Dorothy Dray- 
cott were hardly making sensible progress in their 
acquaintance. 

She kept up with her brother’s friend her gay, rally- 
ing talk, but it was with a slight consciousness of effort. 
Feeling has its own subtle power of impressing others. 
Dorothy never dreamed that the depth and strength of 
his own impressed her with some inexplicable uneasi- 
ness and annoyance — partly with herself, partly with 
him. She did her best, for Tom’s sake, or for various 
other promptings, which she never attempted to analyze, 
to get on with his friend, but with what she regarded 
as dubious success. The charm, the cleverness, the 


286 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


flashing mirth, which were so effective with others, 
seemed somehow to miss their mark in his case. Fal- 
lowes was, of course, a gentleman, and listened to her 
talk, and often surprised her with prompt and gay or 
appreciative response, still — Dorothy did not finish 
the thought to herself ; but a girl knows perfectly when 
she does not feel flattered. 

Philip himself was conscious of some restraint in her 
society; he, too, was vaguely uncomfortable; he had a 
suspicion that his long life in Western wilds had rather 
unfitted him for the finest social atmospheres. He was 
naturally rather mortified at this thought, and nettled 
to feel that he could not make himself as agreeable as 
some of the admirers who hung upon Dorothy’s words 
and smiles. Philip wondered at their presumption; he 
secretly resented their jests and flatteries. They seemed 
to him little short of sacrilege with such a girl. 

But if he did not show to the best advantage with 
Dorothy Draycott, if he affected her atmosphere with a 
slight chill, his ear never lost a cadence of her voice, or 
a sudden burst of girlish laughter that was sweeter to 
him than the song of robins in April rains. It was a 
rapture to be with her, and yet it was often a relief 
when Tom appeared, as he was certain to do in a little 
while, and carried him off. 

As time went on, Mr. and Mrs. Draycott were more 
and more satisfied that Tom had chosen his dearest 
friend wisely. People are always, under all masks, 
revealing their true selves in tone and look and speech. 
Philip did this in a thousand unconscious ways, and 
then Tom was always repeating his speeches, which, 
though they often came from a light and jesting mood, 
had their own interpreting quality. 


CROSS-WINDS AND UNDERCURRENTS 287 


It is one of tlie mysteries of this mysterious human 
life, that two people between whom exist many deep 
and vital sympathies, should yet, by some “ twist of cir- 
cumstance,” some surface misapprehension, be more or 
less alienated and repelled. In the case of these young 
people, the deeper chords of their natures were keyed to 
many identical harmonies, yet some baffling, elusive 
fate seemed always to come between and hold them 
apart, as it probably would not, had their sympathies 
had a narrower range and been of a more superficial 
quality. 

Dorothy had a feeling that young Fallowes regarded 
Tom Draycott’s sister as a rather gay, superficial, young 
woman. A clever girl always resents that sort of 
thing. 

One day, when the two happened to be alone together 
for a few minutes, she suddenly changed the light mood 
which had become the habit of their brief interviews, to 
a graver one ; she spoke of some of her favorite authors ; 
she alluded to books which had been making a sensation 
in the literary world. 

Philip listened politely, if not very responsively. 
The truth was, he felt a good deal embarrassed when 
Dorothy paused, and it came his turn to speak; he apolo- 
gized, rather ineffectively, for his rustiness and inability 
to discuss these matters. “I find myself,” he added, 
“a good deal of a barbarian since I emerged from my 
Western solitude.” 

Dorothy suspected him of some secret irony. Did he 
fancy she had certain literary conceits? The attempt to 
drag in the subject seemed to her now abrupt and ill- 
timed. Tom soon appeared, and the two went off to his 
room. Philip had made Dorothy provoked with herself, 


288 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


and a woman does not always like a man any better for 
doing that. 

But if young Fallow es did not hold his own in Miss 
Draycott’s society, he had his successes elsewhere. The 
rich capitalists and brokers with whom he had business 
relations were so agreeably impressed, that he had fre- 
quent invitations to dinners and parties of all sorts. 
The tall, handsome young man was quite at ease in 
elegant drawing-rooms. Mammas and daughters were 
charmed, and more than one of Philip’s rich hosts re- 
marked to his wife, “My dear, that is just the sort of 
young fellow who would suit me for a son-in-law.” 

One day, after Fallowes had made one of his brief 
visits at Bed Knolls, Dorothy said to Tom : “ What very 
jolly times you two have by yourselves ! I passed your 
door last night, and when I heard the fun going on, was 
strongly tempted to do a little eavesdropping. What- 
ever reserves your Fidus Achates may have with others, 
it is evident he lays them aside with you.” 

“Beserves!” echoed Tom. “I have never discovered 
them. Of course such a sensible fellow as Fallowes is 
not given to wearing his heart on his sleeve.” 

“ Nobody — so far as I know — desires that he should. 
Of course Philip Fallowes is a splendid fellow, and I 
am ready to endorse your adjectives, but I do insist he 
is not the easiest person in the world to get on with, 
when it comes down to ordinary talk. Perhaps such a 
superior being regards all that as beneath him! ” 

“Oh, I see what you mean! ” Tom stretched his long 
limbs in the chair. The talk was taking place in his 
own room. “Of course Fallowes doesn’t affect the 
small talk — the superlatives and flatteries of your ad- 
mirers; but he is head and shoulders above the whole 


CROSS-WINDS AND UNDERCURRENTS 289 


crowd. I always wonder, Dorothy, how a girl like you 
can stand all their — silliness. ” 

Dorothy laughed — the low, easily stirred laugh of 
young girlhood. “0 Tom,” she said, “you poor fel- 
low! if you were a girl, you wouldn’t wonder! ” 

u 


290 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XXXV 

WHAT DAISY ROSS SAW 

One day, not long after the above conversation took 
place, Dake Cramley and Daisy Eoss, who had come out 
to spend the night at Eed Knolls, met young Fallowes. 

Tom had always been sure that Dake had not for- 
gotten their first meeting. The iron of it had entered 
his soul. Of course Fallowes had no idea of this. Even 
in his most careless, undergraduate days, he had been 
too good a fellow to deliberately hurt anybody’s feel- 
ings, but the effect of his manner had not been lessened 
on that account. Tom had simply mentioned to Dake 
the fact of Fallowes’s return, and remarked, casually, 
that his long rough-and-tumble at the West had taken 
down some Sophomoric notions and conceits. He saw 
the two would be likely to run upon each other any time 
at Eed Knolls, and that the sooner the first meeting was 
over the better. 

Tom watched, quiet but curious, when the two were 
introduced. It was at once evident that the name 
had wakened no chord in Philip’s memory. There 
was nothing now in Dake Cramley ’s appearance which 
should make his presence a surprise in the drawing- 
room at Eed Knolls. 

But though Dake was doing his part in the conversa- 
tion, Tom felt he would not be sorry when it came to 
an end. In a few moments, therefore, he went over to 
Daisy, who was talking with his mother, and assuming, 


WHAT DAISY ROSS SAW 


291 


as he was apt to do, indisputable possession of that 
small maiden, carried her over to his friend. 

“I want to present to you, Fallowes,” he said, “my 
special pet, Miss Daisy Ross. She knows something of 
you already, and you cannot please her better than by 
relating some of your Western stories.” 

Other company was present. Tom bore off the not 
reluctant Dake in his own jesting, high-handed fashion. 
For the next hour the young man and the little girl had 
the talk all to themselves. There was no pause in it. 
Philip’s own Western experiences struck him in a new 
light as he watched their effect on his young listener. 
That vast Western world seemed to have fascinated her 
childish imagination. Everything he told her was as 
fresh and delightful to Daisy Ross as reports from a 
traveller come down from the moon. Sometimes she 
would be fairly convulsed over his comic pictures of 
camp-life, his descriptions of pioneer ways and charac- 
ters, and his imitations of their talk. 

“ O Mr. Fallowes, this is what Mrs. Bray would call 
‘just killing 9 ! ” she broke out at one time, breathless with 
laughter. “ I did not suppose anything in the * world 
could be quite so funny ! ” 

“Yes, Miss Daisy, all that was immensely funny. 
One needed plenty of that sort of thing to carry them 
through others — not so funny.” 

“Yes; I can see that.” Daisy responded with a rapid 
comprehension and a transition of tone and mood which 
seemed, for the moment, to make her a woman. “In 
such a great, wild world, many things must be rough 
and hard. I wonder how the little girls get along with 
it.” 

“The one I knew best seemed certainly to have a 


292 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


happy time. She was gay as a lark from morning until 
night.” 

“I'm so glad ! Won’t you tell me her name?” 

“Bachie Baynes.” 

“ It is a nice sort of name. Did you know her very 
well?” 

“Oh, yes — very! I lived, you see, with her father 
and mother a long while before I came East.” 

“ Then that was the way you first got acquainted with 
her?” 

“Well — not quite. We were friends long before 
that, Miss Daisy, when she was only a toddling, lisping 
thing, just over her third birthday.” 

As Philip talked, the little, roguish head, the laughing, 
hazel eyes, and the black rings of hair, always in a pretty 
disorder about the face, with its red cheeks and incomplete 
nose, came up before him. It was in great contrast with 
the dainty loveliness which was smiling before him, but 
the first had its own wild-flower charm — its own fresh, 
childish innocence. 

“Mr. Fallowes,” said Daisy, drawing closer to him, 
her face very serious now, while her voice sank to a 
lower, confidential key, “ did anything happen when you 
first knew each other — anything, I mean, which would 
make a story? ” 

“What in the world made you think of that, Miss 
Daisy?” He stared at her in surprise. 

“ It struck me all of a sudden there might be ! I — I 
wish you would tell me, Mr. Fallowes ! ” 

“Well — yes — I must confess there was something 
which might make a story ! ” 

“Oh, won’t you tell me — please?” How large and 
eager her eyes had grown! 


WHAT DAISY ROSS SAW 


293 


She was irresistible. There was no secret about an 
event with which all Miner’s Rest was familiar. When 
Philip began, he related the scene as one does when he 
is not talking merely, but living a thing over. He 
heard again the child’s cry of sudden terror; he was off 
his mustang; he was rushing down to Indian Creek; he 
had caught a glimpse of the little, black head in the cur- 
rent, and before he knew he was in the stream, he was 
making for that head. 

When he had told her about the rescue and the scene 
which followed at the blacksmith’s, he went on to de- 
scribe the little girl herself. She was the dearest thing, 
he told Daisy, that he had left behind him when he 
went away from Miner’s Rest. 

“And does she remember how you saved her?” Daisy 
asked breathlessly, when Philip paused. 

“She thinks she does. But I can hardly conceive 
that possible.” Philip was speaking half to himself 
now. “She was a mere infant; she has heard the scene 
so often talked over between her father and mother, that 
she is perfectly confident she remembers it.” 

“Mr. Fallowes,” rejoined Daisy, and her eyes shone, 
and there was a tone of grave conviction in her voice, 
“ I think — I am sure — Rachie remembers ! ” 

The look and tone again took him by surprise. 

For an instant he felt an impulse to tell her what 
Rachie had done for him at the Good-Luck shaft. But 
that was a long story, and would involve much explana- 
tion of things which had preceded it. Then there would 
be the inevitable personal note through it all. He de- 
cided this, at least, was not the time or place to intro- 
duce the subject. 

While this talk had been going on, there were other 


294 DOROTHY^ DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

voices — light or earnest — about them. More than a 
dozen people had accidentally come together that even- 
ing, and the air of Eed Knolls always induced a sense of 
freedom and cordiality among the guests — always stim- 
ulated, more or less, the aspiring thought and brought 
the enlarging vision. 

Philip had not answered Daisy’s last remark when 
Dorothy Draycott suddenly left her seat, among some 
young people, and joined the two sitting on the lounge 
in a corner. 

“ What a good time you and Mr. Fallowes are having 
all by yourselves, Daisy ! ” she exclaimed, and her touch 
on the girl’s shoulder was a light caress. “ I have been 
glancing over at you occasionally.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Fallowes has been telling stories about the 
West, Miss Dorothy ! They are just wonderful, and you 
never heard anything so funny ! ” 

Philip and Dorothy exchanged smiling glances. “I 
know Mr. Fallowes’s stories are very delightful, Daisy, 
when one is fortunate enough to hear them.” 

At that moment somebody in the group which she had 
left beckoned to Dorothy. Her presence was evidently 
needed in something that was going on. With a mur- 
mured excuse she hurried away. 

Philip and Daisy watched the slender figure as it 
moved across the floor, and as her eyes turned to Philip, 
they caught the expression in his own. 

“You like Miss Dorothy very much indeed, Mr. Fal- 
lowes, don’t you?” she exclaimed, with the utmost 
guilelessness. 

Philip reddened like a schoolboy under those bright, 
interrogating eyes. “What makes you think so, Miss 
Daisy?” he managed to ask. 


WHAT DAISY ROSS SAW 


295 


“Oh, I can tell,” setting herself a little farther back 
on the lounge, and speaking with the most confiding 
assuredness ; “ when people like others a great deal, they 
look at them — differently ! ’ ; 

Philip laughed an amused, conscious laugh. Before 
he was ready for a reply, Daisy went on, in that voice 
which made a sweet, brook-like ripple along the words : 
“But you don’t know, Mr. Fallowes, half how lovely 
Miss Dorothy is! When I saw her the first time, and 
she brought me out to Bed Knolls, — of course it is a 
very long time ago and I had a great deal to learn, — I 
thought she must be an angel, and walked all round her 
to find where the wings were joined on! ” 

Philip laughed heartily at this, and then he asked 
gravely, “And did you find the wings?” 

“ Of course not ! I see you are making fun of me, Mr. 
Fallowes. I know now it was very silly. When I told 
Dakie, he said she did not need the wings. You know 
what he meant? ” 

“ That Miss Draycott was angel enough without them. 
That was a very nice thing for Dakie to say.” 

“Dakie always says nice things, Mr. Fallowes — 
things that go straight to the point.” 

“Dakie is Mr. Tom’s friend, I believe. Is he your 
brother?” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” 

“But you do not strike me as looking the least 
alike.” 

“Well, Dakie is my very own brother,” rejoined 
Daisy, with a kind of triumphant conviction in her 
tones, “though we are not in the least related, Mr. 
Fallowes ! ” 

Philip had nothing to say at such an irreconcilable 


296 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

affirmative and negative. Then there was a stir in the 
room. The guests were departing. 

Not long afterward, when Tom had joined his friend, 
and the family, with Dake and Daisy, were talking on 
the opposite side of the room, Tom suddenly remarked: 
“Well, Fallowes, what sort of impression did my small 
friend make on you? I saw you two were keeping up an 
animated conversation for the last hour.” 

“Impression! She is the brightest, most bewitching 
creature, in the way of little-girl humanity, I ever came 
across. Where did you get hold of her?” 

“ It was Dake Cramley who first discovered and brought 
her to us.” As Tom spoke he glanced over to the youth 
who was talking with his father. 

Then Philip* repeated Daisy’s last statement, and 
begged Tom to explain the paradox. 

Tom laughed. “ Oh, that is very easily done. Cram- 
ley is her adopted brother.” 

“But there must be something behind. How did 
those two come together, if one has a right to ask?” 

“ It is a long story, with a great deal of human drama. 
Sometime, perhaps, I will tell you.” 

Tom saw he could not do this without relating more 
or less of his own share in events. He had no desire, 
just then, to pose as benefactor or hero, so he added : “ Go 
up to my den, Fallowes! Dake and Daisy are to stay 
over night, and you, of course, will do the same. I 
shall have him up for a while. I want you and that 
young fellow to see something of each other.” 

Tom was certain that Dake would have preferred re- 
maining with his own family in the drawing-room, but 
he had his own object in view, and carried him off. 

An hour later, when the two were alone together, 


WHAT DAISY ROSS SAW 


297 


Tom felt he had no reason to regret his movement. Old 
events might still occasionally rankle in Dake’s memory, 
but he had seen his eyes kindle over Philip’s enthusi- 
astic praises when Tom adroitly brought up Daisy in 
the conversation. 

“That young fellow has a good face,” Fallowes re- 
marked as soon as Dake had left the room. 

“ Good ! ” repeated Tom. “ He’s gold ! ” 

“ I had a feeling, more than once, that I had met him 
somewhere before ! ” 

“You had! ” Tom managed to keep the note of sur- 
prise out of his monosyllables. 

“Yes. I have a good memory for faces if I have once 
observed them. But it is not likely I have ever seen 
Cramley’s. He probably reminded me, in a vague way, 
of some Western man.” 


298 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XXXVI 

MRS. DRAYCOTT’S MINUTE 

Dorothy Draycott was in her mother’s room one 
morning. She was humming some light tune to herself 
as she placed in a long, narrow-stemmed vase, a couple of 
deep-red roses and surrounded the glowing bloom with 
white sprays of lilies-of-the-valley. The humming, 
scarcely louder than that of the bees among the flower- 
ing shrubs outside, suddenly ceased. “Mamma,” she 
exclaimed, as one does when a passing thought ulti- 
mates in speech, “I do not believe Philip Fallowes alto- 
gether approves of me ! ” 

“What nonsense!” said her mother lightly, but turn- 
ing her head from the table by which she was standing, 
to look in some surprise at her daughter. 

“ Oh, I do not mean, ” with a low, amused laugh, “ that 
he has ever quite admitted this to himself, but I am 
satisfied that, in his secret soul, he regards me as a 
rather light-minded, mucli-on- the-surface, young woman 
— to be placated a little, perhaps, because I have the 
great good fortune to be Tom Draycott’s sister!” 

“ What can have put this absurd idea into your head, 
Dorothy? ” 

“ Oh, a good many small things — hardly worth relat- 
ing. But I can feel people’s atmospheres. Philip Fal- 
lowes does not evidently find it easy to get on with me ; 
he never says nice things to me ; never seizes a chance to 
pay me a compliment. If we happen to be together, it 


MRS. DRAYCOTT’S MINUTE 


299 


is always something of a relief to him when Tom ap- 
pears and they can get off together. But I am not pin- 
ing over this indifference. There are, fortunately, other 
people in the world who do not share Mr. Fallowes’s 
opinion ! ” She bridled her head, partly in mischief, 
partly with a girl’s natural consciousness of her power. 

Mrs. Draycott laughed and raised her eyebrows signifi- 
cantly. 

“That sounds, I know, slightly conceited, but what 
were mothers originally designed for?” 

“Will you tell me?” 

Dorothy crowded down a last spray into her vase and 
surveyed the result with pleased eyes. 

“For their daughters,” she returned, glib and playful, 
“to have somebody to whom they can show all their 
conceits and vanities and worse things, and with whom 
all these will make no difference ! ” 

Dorothy’s instinct, usually so true, had gone wide of 
the mark this time. A vainer girl might have reached 
a different solution of young Fallowes’s behavior. 

Some interruption at that moment prevented Mrs. 
Draycott’s reply. The talk made so slight an impres- 
sion that it did not recur to her until — something- hap- 
pened. 

It was, perhaps, a fortnight afterward, when Tom 
brought his friend, who was in Boston again, out home 
with him for the night. After breakfast, the young 
men found they could, by a free use of the telephone, 
have a couple of hours’ grace to themselves. Dorothy, 
occupied with some callers, knew nothing of this. 

Late in the morning, the young men came down-stairs 
on their way to the station. Tom suddenly remembered 
some legal documents he had left behind him, and, with 


300 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

a murmured apology, rushed back to his room. Philip 
turned into a large apartment which opened into the hall 
to wait for his friend. 

Dorothy suddenly entered this room ; she did not per- 
ceive Philip, who was standing in a recess by the win- 
dow; she supposed he had long since left the house with 
her brother. But she did see Hidalgo lying on the rug, 
and though she was in a hurry, stopped, as was her habit, 
to pull the beautiful creature’s ears and stroke his big 
head; she wore a light shade hat; she had been out in 
the ground with her young friends and the fresh air and 
the merry talk had brought a joyous light to her eyes, a 
deepened flush to her cheeks. Hidalgo bent his head 
to the caressing hand, and then suddenly pricked up his 
ears and leaped from it. 

“No, Hidalgo,” said Dorothy, interrupting the move- 
ment. “Tom is miles away by this time.” 

Then she lifted her head, turned, and walked rapidly 
from the room. The next moment Tom came down- 
stairs, and Fallowes and Hidalgo met him in the hall. 

But somebody had seen! Mrs. Dray cott happened, a 
moment before, to enter the alcove which opened into 
the larger room. She caught, through the parted por- 
tieres, Philip’s entrance, and was about to advance and 
address him when Dorothy came in. 

What Mrs. Draycott saw did not probably consume 
more than a minute, but it was something she will never 
forget. It was the look in Philip Fallowes’s eyes as he 
bent them on her unconscious daughter. She felt that 
no single word could fully interpret that look — at least, 
to herself. If there was tenderness in it, there was 
something else — something worshipful — some passion 
of reverence and gratitude. It seemed to her a man 


MRS. DRAYCOTT’S MINUTE 


301 


might turn and look at a woman in that way just after 
she had saved his life, or something that was more than 
what the world calls — life. 

But Grace Draycott had never seen in a man’s eyes — 
not even in her husband’s — just that expression which 
she had seen in Philip’s. It held her breathless; it 
struck her pale through all the surprise of her stirred 
mother-heart. 

She went straight to her room ; she did not want to 
meet Dorothy just then. But as she went, the talk 
about Philip recurred to her. It was clear to her now 
as the landscape is when the lightning leaps from the 
storm-cloud. 

Mrs. Draycott locked the door; she sat down; the look 
in Philip’s eyes pursued her. Was she sorry? Was 
she glad? She could not tell; she only knew, in a little 
while, that her face was in her hands and that they were 
hiding her tears. 


302 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XXXVII 

HOW PHILIP WENT TO CHERRY FARMS 

The two young men, facing in opposite directions, 
turned the corner and almost ran into each other. After 
the greetings were over, they returned together to Tom 
Draycott’s office, where Fallowes had just been in search 
of his friend. The interval between the Boston visits 
had been longer than usual; hence, both felt a special 
gratification at this meeting. They were talking eagerly 
when they entered the office. A letter lay conspicuous 
on Tom’s desk. 

“ It is from Dollikins, ” he explained. “ I brought it 
in town and left it inadvertently on my desk when I 
rushed out on Devonshire Street. She has been at 
Cherry Farms with aunty Dayles for the last week. 
She is having an enormously good time. I made up my 
mind at breakfast to cut business and join her for two 
or three days. We used to go there at this season when 
we were small boy and girl, and have kept up the tradi- 
tion, so far as possible, ever since. I intend to take 
Dorothy by surprise.” 

Fallowes laughed. “ What a grand lark you are going 
to have ! It will be to you, Tom, I should fancy, a good 
deal like the old Amoury Roost days! You brought me 
up sharply with your ‘Siste, Viator’ behind the labur- 
nums. I lived over all that scene a good many times in 
Colorado.” 


HOW PHILIP WENT TO CHERRY FARMS 303 


A new idea struck Tom. “ What is there to prevent 
our repeating that time, in a slightly different form, 
Fallowes? Why not let things take care of themselves 
for a few days, and go off with me to Cherry Farms? 
What a big jollification we could make of it ! The trout 
are ready, in the hill streams, to jump at our flies.” 

Philip’s eyes flashed and his cheek reddened. Tom 
observed both, and was satisfied, however he might 
demur, what his first impulse had been. 

“ Thank you, Draycott. Your programme is delight- 
ful, as such things are apt to be when they can never be 
carried out.” 

“But what stands in the way of this one?” 

“ Oh — a world of things ! ” 

“ Condescend to particulars — please ! ” 

“Well, what would everybody — what would your 
sister, for instance — think of my appearing in such a 
cool, take-for-granted fashion as you suggest?” 

“Everybody — Dollikins included — would be happy 
to see you. You will be at home at Cherry Farms at 
the end of five minutes. Aunty Dayles — of course you 
know something of her — will make you certain of your 
welcome with one of her smiles and three words. Now, 
Fallowes, don’t let any nonsense keep you from going 
along ! ” 

The argument did not end here. When Philip per- 
ceived that all personal scruples were lightly set aside, 
he fell back on other objections — business, prior engage- 
ments, and urged them the more insistently because of 
the inward impulse which was strongly drawing him in 
the opposite direction. But Tom carried all his defences 
— with some lawyer’s ingenuity, no doubt — but his 
heart was very much in the matter. The half-hour’s 


304 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

talk ended by his adjuring Fallowes to give him this 
pleasure, after immuring himself for six years — for 
which, by the by, he should never quite forgive him — 
in Kocky Mountain solitudes. 

So Draycott won the day. Fallowes was to go a few 
miles out of town that evening, but he agreed to be at 
the station in time to board the train which Tom was to 
take the next morning, when the two would proceed in 
company to Cherry Farms. 

“ So both the kids will have taken themselves off ! ” 

Donald Draycott made this remark to his wife when 
they were alone together, after dinner. Tom had, at 
that meal, related his interview with young Fallowes, 
and the arguments and persuasions by which he had at 
last induced his friend to accompany him to Cherry 
Farms; his own trip, as they knew, having been sud- 
denly decided on at the breakfast-table, after reading 
his sister’s letter. 

“Yes; but you and I have never found it oppressive 
to be alone together ! ” 

“Hardly!” 

“ What do you think of Tom’s carrying off Philip Fal- 
lowes with him?” 

“It struck me as a capital idea. Dorothy will be 
overjoyed to see Tom, and the two fellows will have a 
glorious time among the trout streams and tramping 
over the country in this glorious weather. It makes me 
feel young to think of it.” 

Grace Draycott looked up reflectively at her husband. 
She had been greatly startled by Tom’s announcement at 
dinner; she had not seen Philip since that time when 
she caught the expression in his eyes as he suddenly 


HOW PHILIP WENT TO CHERRY FARMS 305 

bent them upon her unconscious daughter. His look 
had haunted her ever since; at times she wished she 
had never seen it. But all the same, he had been con- 
stantly in the foreground of her thoughts. The wonder 
was — a greater wonder to herself than it could possibly 
be to anybody else — that she had never confided the 
matter to her husband. A hundred times she had made 
up her mind to speak. Then some feeling, difficult to 
analyze, had restrained her. For one reason, it seemed 
impossible to translate into words the look she had sur- 
prised. “Donald,” she said to herself, “would be apt 
to suppose her imagination, or her maternal feelings had 
carried her away.” That would be worse than keeping 
silent. 

Then she shrank from interfering in this case, as she 
certainly would not in that of an ordinary lover. But 
she could never recall the look in young Fallowes’s eyes 
as he stood in the window embrasure, without her heart 
growing tender toward him. She had been learning a 
great deal about him during these last weeks. It was 
an easy matter to lead Tom, who, of course, had not the 
faintest suspicion of his mother’s motive, to talk of his 
friend. 

Mrs. Draycott had, too, a woman’s intuition that the 
feeling she had surprised would some time force itself 
into expression — the more powerful* perhaps, because 
it would have to break down the strong barriers of 
Philip’s reserve. What the effect would be, even her 
mother’s insight could not forecast, but she had a feel- 
ing that if Dorothy ever understood all that one glance 
had revealed, it would touch some depth in her nature 
which other lovers had not succeeded in reaching. 

Mrs. Draycott was conscious that the two must be 
x 


306 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


brought into more intimate personal relations during 
these days at Cherry Farms than they had ever been 
at Red Knolls. Tom’s presence, however, would have 
a diverting effect, and he would be certain to claim the 
lion’s share of his friend’s society. Should she not let 
these things take their own course? 

A weaker woman would have spoken long before this. 
Grace Draycott’s character was capable of strong silences. 

Her husband had opened a volume from which he was 
reading to her in the evenings, and in which both felt a 
deep interest; he had not observed the long, silent, re- 
flective gaze she bent on him. “ Yes,” she said, answer- 
ing his last remark, “ those young people will, no doubt, 
have a high jubilation at Cherry Farms. You and I will 
stay at home and play our role of ‘Old Folks in the 
Chimney Corner.’ Go on with your book, Donald — 
please ! ” 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S SURPRISE 


307 


XXXVIII 

DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s SURPRISE 

It was late in the afternoon. Dorothy Draycott, 
brushing her hair before the mirror, heard suddenly a 
strong, virile voice ring up from the hall below, “ Can a 
lone stranger find food and lodging for the night at this 
hostelry? ” 

Dorothy threw down her hair-brush with a startled cry, 
sprang to the door, and bounded down the stairs. The 
next moment her arms were around the neck of a tall, 
broad-shouldered, young man in a dark-gray travelling- 
suit, and she was saying, breathlessly: “Oh, Tom, you 
blessed creature ! What a surprise, and how glad I am! ” 

“ I have torn myself from indignant clients and press- 
ing cases to keep our ancient May-days,” he said, after 
a brotherly return of her caress. “ I shall depend upon 
your being overwhelmingly grateful, and cherishing and 
adoring me for the angel I am ! ” 

“ Tom, I will devote myself to you ; I will obey your 
lightest whim ; I will be your bond-slave ! ” 

“ That is all my modesty asks. Now prepare yourself 
for another surprise. I have brought somebody with 
me ! ” 

“ You have ! ” The monosyllables had hardly passed 
her lips before Dorothy had a prophetic flash. 

“Yes,” continued Tom, with an off-hand volubility 
which did not deceive his sister. “I had to make as 


308 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


strong a plea as I ever did to move an obstinate jury to 
get him off with me.” 

Another presence, Dorothy felt, would be a restraint 
on that perfect freedom which had always been so dear 
a part of their May-days at Cherry Farms. She had 
barely time to be on her guard when Tom led her to 
a room on the right, and with a glance her prophetic 
instinct was verified. Young Fallowes was standing 
before her. 

Dorothy was equal to the occasion, though her cheeks 
flushed, remembering her little pink dressing-sacque and 
the hair that, in her rush down-stairs, had broken loose 
from its fastenings. 

“0 Mr. Fallowes,” she said, giving him her hand, 
“ how good you were to come ! I hope you will be as 
happy as Tom and I always are at Cherry Farms.” 

Tom, who had, during the journey, an occasional mis- 
giving as to Dorothy’s unmixed gratification at the 
appearance of his friend, was satisfied with her wel- 
come. 

A little gay talk followed, and then a small woman’s 
figure, with a face serene and sweet under the soft gray 
hair, appeared at the door. “ Where is my big boy, 
Tom?” asked the mistress of Cherry Farms. “I heard 
his shout in the hall.” 

Tom was at her side in a moment, and his greeting 
had all the fervor of a happy boy. Then he took Mrs. 
Dayles over to his friend. “ I was determined to bring 
him with me if I had to do it by main force,” he said. 
“ I was certain, aunty Dayles, you would set his numer- 
ous scruples at rest, if I once got him under your roof.” 

Mrs. Dayles looked at the young man with her kind, 
earnest gaze, after she had given him her hand. “ Tom 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S SURPRISE 


309 


was right, Mr. Fallowes,” she said in a moment; “I am 
glad to welcome yon to Cherry Farms.” 

Anybody could have spoken the words. There were 
few who could have interpreted them with such a smile 
and voice. 

Cherry Farms had an individuality of its own. If 
you once crossed its threshold, you found yourself wish- 
ing, in a little while, that you might never leave it. 
There was something in its peaceful, reposeful atmos- 
phere which stole over your senses — into your soul. 
No single word can express it; but the consciousness 
that you had entered into the heart of a home — into 
that which interpreted its meaning and its life — en- 
folded you like a spell. 

The farmhouse, of a light-gray tint, was large, sub- 
stantial, wide-roomed, with deep piazzas on three sides. 
It had been well preserved, and might be from thirty 
to fifty years old. It harmonized with the landscape, 
which was that of the beautiful hill-country of Vermont. 

People, driving past, would draw up on the highway 
and stare at the house with its ample front, its slope of 
shrubs and gay flowers, and the double lines of grand 
cherry-trees on one side, and say to themselves, “I 
should like to get inside!” 

Those who did, found the small, soft-spoken, bright- 
faced mistress seem as fitting a part of the house as 
that did of the landscape. 

Here the young Draycotts had come through their 
childhood to get the air of the hills into their blood, 
and the simplicity, the freedom, the wholesome quality 
of the old farm-life into their souls; to get, in short, 
closer to nature, and take, unconsciously, into their 
minds and hearts, the lessons which the great Mother 


310 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

alone can teach. It was a conviction with Mr. and Mrs. 
Draycott that their children owed to Cherry Farms some- 
thing which even Red Knolls could not have given them. 

Before the supper was over, that which Tom Draycott 
had predicted for Philip Fallowes had come to pass. He 
felt as much at home at Cherry Farms as though he had 
always been living there. Mrs. Dayles was sure to make 
her personality felt anywhere; but, at her own board, 
with its hospitable abundance, she was at her best. She 
had her own ideas on the whole subject, and the force of 
character to carry them out. 

To her the table was the heart of home — the dearest 
and most sacred thing, in many of its aspects, of the 
household life. She saw, too, it was the place where a 
woman naturally presides; where her heart and brain 
can make themselves most decisively felt; where she 
must inevitably create an atmosphere, and give the key- 
note to the talk. 

From the early days of her wifehood, Mrs. Dayles 
had resolved to exclude from her table, so far as was 
in the power of its mistress, all the gossip and carping 
speech, all the unkind and bitter remarks, all the hold- 
ing up of the weaknesses and faults of others to criti- 
cism and ridicule, which she knew too well, formed the 
staple of daily talk at so many of the home-tables of 
Christendom. 

“ The things that weaken and distract and wound will 
come into our lives as they do into all lives, Benjamin,” 
the young wife had said to her husband. “But they 
shall not come to sit with us at our board, even if that 
is a humble one. We will bring our best and happiest 
selves, our kindliest speech, our tenderest thoughts for 
others, when we gather at our table.” 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S SURPRISE 311 

The woman who could make such a speech — make it 
with her heart as well as her lips — would be likely to 
have the purposeful nature to carry it out. Those who 
sat at Mrs. Dayles’s table could not fail to feel, more or 
less, according to their kind, the spirit of the place. 

The evening of the young men’s arrival was a pleasant 
one to all concerned. Tom and his sister talked of 
Amoury Roost and of Daisy Ross, who was to have her 
second birthday festival there. 

“ What a charming time Mrs. Amoury will make of it ! ” 
exclaimed Dorothy. “ She has a genius for such occa- 
sions. You and I, Tom, are to have our good time later, 
with the dozen! You must remember them as the funni- 
est part of your visit to Amoury Roost, though you have 
had so many more important experiences since that time.” 

Dorothy had turned smiling to Philip as she spoke. 
She meant to be very polite to her brother’s friend, and 
to be glad that he came. 

“Oh, yes, Miss Draycott, I remember the dozen per- 
fectly,” Philip replied, but he did not add that he 
entirely disagreed with the last clause of her remark. 

Tom broke in here. “Important experiences! I 
should think so! Now, Pallowes, I want you to relate 
some of those rib-splitting stories you have told to me ! ” 

Tom was persistent, and chose those stories which had 
struck him. Philip showed his keen perception of char- 
acter, and his vivid descriptive powers, as, urged on by 
Tom, he went from one story to another. His audience 
was, for the next half-hour, in frequent convulsions of 
laughter. 

After supper was over, the young men were much 
occupied in making plans for the next day. Dorothy 
talked with Mrs. Dayles. Later, however, when Tom 


312 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


and Philip went out to observe the sky with a view to 
weather prognostications, the ladies joined them on the 
piazza. Tom gave his arm to Mrs. Dayles and Philip 
walked with Dorothy. 

It was a warm May night, with a soft gray veil of 
cloud, thick enough to hide the stars. But a half moon 
showed occasionally a blanched face among the clouds. 

However, it was a moon of moons to Philip Fallowes. 
The girl with whom he was walking was the girl he had 
walked with so long ago at Amoury Boost. The two 
nights got a little mixed together in his thoughts. 

“ The moon is very considerate to come out and give 
us an occasional glimpse of herself,” exclaimed Dorothy 
carelessly, seizing the first thing it occurred to her to 
say. “Do you see her, Mr. Fallowes — a spectral sort 
of thing, against those gray clouds?” 

“ I see her ! What does the moon make you think of, 
Miss Draycott?” 

The moment the question had passed his lips, it seemed 
to him the most inapt remark he could have stumbled on ! 
“ Had he come to Cherry Farms to make as dreary an 
affair of it, when it came to any talk between them, as 
he had at Bed Knolls?” 

“I am not going to take the moon’s part!” said 
Dorothy, with her gay little laugh. “ I believe she has 
much less to do with our thoughts than our own moods. 
You see I am a hopelessly prosaic, unromantic young 
woman. Will you tell me what the moon makes you 
think of, Mr. Fallowes?” 

“ She has made me think of our last walk at Amoury 
Boost. There was a full moon then, and she was not 
playing any game of bo-peep among the clouds.” 

Dorothy was rather taken by surprise. “ Did he begin 


DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S SURPRISE 


313 


to feel that it was time to pay some sort of compliment 
to Tom Draycott’s sister, if it was by way of the moon? ” 

But he should see her vanity was not going to appro- 
priate anything so ambiguous! “You must have a 
remarkably tenacious memory for moons, Mr. Fallowes, " 
she said, with that little bewitching movement of her head 
which he knew so well, “ to be able to recall that espe- 
cial moon after seven dozen others have waxed and 
waned ! But I do remember our walk at Amoury Roost. 
We had some talk, too. It was mostly concerned with 
Tom and his classmates, I believe.” 

“I have made a fool of myself again!” was Philip's 
mental comment. 

The others joined them at that moment. The conver- 
sation became general and, in a little while, they all 
entered the house. 

The next morning Tom appeared at the breakfast- 
table and saluted the others with a decidedly lugubrious 
expression. When Dorothy caught sight of his face, she 
exclaimed in dismay, “Oh, what is the matter, Tom?” 

“ Matter enough ! ” he replied, slapping down vin- 
dictively a telegram by the side of his plate. “ I found 
this thing awaiting me as I left my room. It is from a 
client, whom recent advices from abroad compel to sail 
on Saturday's steamer. His case is to come off soon after 
his return. It is of the utmost importance that he 
should see me before he goes. He is coming to Sara- 
toga, where his family are staying, for that very pur- 
pose. In order to meet him I must take the next train 
— shall not get back, in all probability, before day after 
to-morrow. I feel at this moment that Cherry Farms, 
the most delicious weather in the world, and hill-streams 
alive with trout are only a delusion and a snare ! ” 


314 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

Everybody was voluble with sympathy. Tom was, 
however, at bottom, more chagrined for his friend’s dis- 
appointment than for his own. 

After breakfast there were only a few minutes to 
spare. Tom managed to secure an aside with Dorothy 
in the sitting-room. “ I am awfully cut up to go off and 
leave Eallowes in this way,” he confided to her, “ after 
dragging him off with me and talking up Cherry Farms 
sky-high. I am afraid it will be horribly slow for him.” 

“ Your opinion of the society to which you leave him 
is the reverse of complimentary.” Dorothy rejoined 
dryly; but the next instant her tone changed. “0 
Tom, I am so sorry for you! It is awfully annoying. 
Is there any way in which I can help you?” 

“ There is — just one.” 

“ How — pray ? ” 

“Make it as pleasant for Fallowes as you can. Girls 
know how to do these things. Won’t you beam your 
brightest on him?” 

“I always supposed the lack of ‘beaming’ was on his 
side. But I understand, Tom. I will do my very best. 
You may trust me.” 

“My horizon is already clearing. You are the dearest 
little torment in the world, Dollikins ! There comes the 
buggy! Fallowes is going with me to the station.” 

He snatched a kiss; his feet rang on the piazza. 
Dorothy waved her handkerchief from the window as 
the buggy drove away. 


THE POEM PHILIP FALLOWES REMEMBERED 315 


XXXIX 

THE POEM PHILIP FALLOWES REMEMBERED 

When Philip Fallowes returned, half an hour later, 
he found, rather to his surprise, Dorothy Draycott await- 
ing him on the piazza. She wore her hat and was draw- 
ing on her gloves, for a walk, evidently. She certainly 
was a lovely object to contemplate as she stood there, 
her brown eyes radiant, a little mischievous smile lurk- 
ing at the corners of her mouth. She wore a gown of 
soft fabric and light amber tint. A little shade hat 
harmonized with it. It is sufficient to say of the latter 
that it struck Philip Fallowes as the most bewitching 
thing, in its way, a woman ever wore. 

Dorothy had spent much of the last half-hour in 
reflecting how she could best carry out her promise to 
Tom. Her motives were, no doubt, complex ones. 
There was, first of all, her promise to Tom, and her 
sympathy with his disappointment; but underlying this 
were a good deal of girlish mischief and fun, with a cer- 
tain pique, and something else which she could not 
explain to herself — something which gave a touch of 
annoyance, a shade of resentment, to her feeling for 
Philip Fallowes. 

The result of her reflections had been summed up in 
her conclusion. “ I have got him at close quarters now, 
and — well — I have promised Tom to do my best; which 
means, of course, ‘ smiling and beguiling. ’ ” Then she 


316 DOROTHY DRAYCOTt’s TO-MORROWS 


laughed to herself a little, gleeful laugh, with a bit of 
provocation at bottom, thinking that Fallowes was com- 
ing back now, looking forward with anything but rapture 
to the prospect which awaited him. 

“Fortunately, some other men would feel differently, ” 
she said to herself, and “ other men ” would have forgiven 
the touch of girlish vanity in the words, if they had seen 
the spirited pose of the beautiful, young head. 

For his part, Philip had some compunctions as he 
drove back from the station, remembering Tom’s annoy- 
ance at being forced to leave him. Philip’s own feeling 
was a tumultuous joy and amazement that this thing had 
come about — that he was to have this day with Dorothy 
Draycott, instead of going fishing with her brother! He 
wondered if he were dreaming! Certainly, things did 
not happen like this in every-day life ! He felt a strong 
impulse to shout and throw up his hat like a boy. Then 
his rapture cooled, remembering what a muff he always 
made of himself in Miss Draycott’s presence. 

Philip lifted his hat as he mounted the steps; he 
had no suspicion that the smiling, blooming, young girl 
awaiting him there was much on her mettle. 

Dorothy addressed him at once. “ Tom’s spirits have 
a wonderful capacity for rebound. I hope he had recov- 
ered them by the time he reached the station.” 

“They had; he charged me, just as the car started, 
with a message for you.” 

“What could it have been?” 

“ That you were to remember the promise you made 
him.” 

“ And did he tell you what that was? ” 

“Hot a syllable.” 

“Well, I am going to do it, Mr. Fallowes! I was to 


THE POEM PHILIP FALLOWES REMEMBERED 317 


be very good to you to-day — a sort of guardian angel, in 
short ! ” 

“Ah, my dear,” Philipp quick thought went, “you 
have been that so many times, and you stand there with 
your lips smiling and your glorious eyes shining on me, 
and you do not know ! ” 

Then he flushed slightly, finding that he had actually 
called Dorothy Draycott in his thought, “ My dear ! ” 

What he said, certainly, was far enough from any- 
thing of that sort. “That was immensely kind of 
Tom!” 

“And so Tom is to have all the credit and the com- 
pliments, and I not one sign of acknowledgment or syl- 
lable of praise ! ” reflected Dorothy. 

In spite of this, she kept on beamingly: “And I am 
going to set about my role of ‘guardian angel ’ at once! 
You cannot escape it, Mr. Eallowes! It is a part of 
their function, I believe, to be very insistent. I am 
going to invite you to accompany me to our ancient 
apple-tree. It is the oldest in the orchard, and the 
first place Tom and I visit when we come to Cherry 
Farms. We once had a fancy that the birds sang a 
little sweeter in. its boughs than anywhere else.” 

“ I shall be charmed to place myself in the hands of 
such a guardian angel ! ” 

It struck Dorothy that this speech, though it was the 
conventional thing, came nearer to a compliment than 
anything Eallowes had yet said to Tom Draycott’s sister. 

They went down through the deep, lush grass of the 
lane, under the double lines of noble trees which gave 
Cherry Farms its name, and which now made one snow 
of bloom over their heads and another under their feet. 
It was a May morning — the last of the year. The 


318 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


spring was going on her old way — crowned and full- 
laden — into the arms of summer. Overhead, the sky was 
one sparkling azure, unbroken by a wisp of cloud. The 
air was full of the fragrance of blossoming orchards; 
the fields were in the fresh glory of New England wild 
flowering — gold of dandelions, and red of clover, and 
snow of daisies. 

The walk from the house to the orchard, even when 
feet sauntered by the way, would not consume more than 
ten minutes. It led through a narrow, twisting meadow- 
path, and near an old stone-wall which separated the 
meadow from a pasture-lot. In this, and not far from 
the wall, grew a rose-bush — a thorny, many-branched, 
straggling thing, but holding up now, on one delicate 
spray, a handful of wild-roses, — its first ones, — their 
petals shining deep-pink just above the gray wall. 

Dorothy gave a little cry of pleasure when her glance 
first caught them. “ 0 Mr. Fallowes, do you see those 
lovely things? They are the first wild-roses I have come 
upon this spring!” 

Philip stood and gazed with her; but he did not move. 
Any other young man in the wide circle of Dorothy’s 
acquaintance would have seized his opportunity — would 
have leaped over the stone-wall, plucked the roses, 
and brought them to her with his handsomest bow and 
his most graceful compliment. It seemed to Philip that 
the scant cluster of wild blooms was not a fitting gift 
for the girl at his side. No doubt he would have been 
ready to risk his neck to bring her the loveliest flower 
in all that May-world, if its rare bloom and fragrance 
had struck him as symbolic of herself. But, of course, 
Dorothy never dreamed of this. For the second time 
that morning she was provoked with him. She would 


THE POEM PHILIP FALLOWES REMEMBERED 319 

have liked that bright color at her belt. “Brothers’ 
friends,” she reflected, “might not prove the most agree- 
able escorts in the world ! ” 

With a little effort she put her momentary chagrin 
aside. It was not his fault, certainly, that he was at 
Cherry Farms to-day, and thrown on her resources for 
entertainment. Was it some irony of fate which had 
brought them together to walk through this lpvely May- 
morning, with something puzzling and baffling between 
them — she could not tell what? She glanced up at him 
doubtfully as she asked herself this question, and was 
struck, as she never had been before, with something in 
his face — a strength and force — a certain nobility of 
type which must mean character behind it. She had 
always thought Philip Fallowes handsome, but this 
thing she saw now was quite distinct from the mould- 
ing of his features, the dark shade of his hair and 
mustache. As she glanced up occasionally at Philip’s 
profile, Dorothy’s mouth was settling into a firmer line. 
Her resolution had come back with redoubled force. 
They kept up, with a slight effort, more or less conver- 
sation; but Dorothy was telling herself that she would 
“ seize the first chance or make one, that the day was 
before her, and she was not going to be defeated.” 

A few moments later they had passed from the 
meadow, crossed a little foot-bridge over a shallow 
stream that made a tinkling song among the stones, 
and were in the great Cherry Farms orchard. 

It was like entering a vast garden of pink and white 
bloom, of delicious scents, of stillness and shadow 
meshed with sunshine, of morning dews still sparkling 
amongst the grass. Each tree made a bower of fra- 
grance and bloom; each scattered with every touch of 


320 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

breeze, a shower of soft petals upon the green. Dorothy- 
led the way through a half -overgrown foot-path to the 
great patriarch of the orchard. Its widespread, knarled 
and knotted limbs were clothed in as fresh bravery as 
any of its younger sisterhood. A large, rustic bench 
stood under the ancient tree. Dorothy closed her para- 
sol, and the two sat down. 

Each probably had a general idea of extending their 
walk in a short time. The robins seemed bent on sing- 
ing their hearts out in that sunshine, that fragrant air. 
The two drank in the beauty about them with young, 
glad eyes. The love of nature was a passion with both. 

Dorothy never dreamed that had any other girl been 
sitting in her place, Philip would have found it the 
easiest matter in the world to keep up a light, gay, 
flattering strain of talk. 

But though she herself, enjoying the scene, — so full 
to her of pleasant memories and associations, — was not 
eager to break the silence, all her feminine instincts 
were on the alert. She was bent on seizing her first 
chance — no matter how slight — for making an advance 
on Philip’s reserve. 

He spoke first. “ My uncle Radleigh used to say that 
May was the poem of all the months to him. I see now 
what he meant.” 

“ That was a poetic fancy. Do you like poetry, Mr. 
Fallowes? ” 

The moment her question was out, she saw its ab- 
surdity. She might as well have asked him if he liked 
nature or beauty ! 

“I like some kinds of poetry, Miss Draycott.” She 
saw him smile a little, and fancied he must be secretly 
making fun of her. Well, she deserved it! But she 


THE POEM PHILIP FALLOWES REMEMBERED 321 


kept on in order to retrieve the effect of her last ques- 
tion. “ People who like poetry of ‘some kinds’ are 
almost sure to have inspired moments themselves. 
Haven’t you a muse of your own, Mr. Fallowes?” 

“If I have, she was not ‘inevitable’ enough; she 
deserted me when I went off into the rough-and-tumble 
of Rocky Mountain life.” 

“Then you confess — dropping all metaphors — that 
you have, at some time, written some poems? ” 

“ I confess to some schoolboy and college rhymes. A 
callow youth is apt to be guilty of things of that sort.” 

Dorothy began to have a feeling that her chance arrow 
might not have gone so wide of the mark. 

“Mr. Fallowes,” she said, smoothing the folds of her 
parasol, and glancing at Philip out of the corners of her 
eyes, “ I wish you would repeat some of those rhymes ! ” 

“ Really, I have forgotten the things, Miss Draycott. 
But, in any case, I would not impose such crude stuff 
on you.” 

Those sidelong, smiling glances were regarding him 
very intently. “But one would be always likely to 
remember something of one’s own in that line — some- 
thing that an event, an association, or a person, would 
be sure to hold fast in the memory.” 

“Perhaps so. At least I am not able to answer for 
other people.” 

This time Dorothy detected a touch of embarrassment 
in Philip’s laugh; she saw that he had taken refuge in 
a general remark. 

Dorothy Draycott was an impulsive creature, and she 
had been used all her life to acting upon her impulses. 
A young girl, much accustomed to admiration, even if 
she had that fine quality of character, that saving salt 

T 


322 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


of good sense which kept her from being spoiled, would 
have felt piqued at what Dorothy regarded as her cumu- 
lative failures to awaken any sort of interest in Philip 
Fallowes. But high spirits, running a little riot in the 
life and beauty of the morning, and girlish mischief were 
largely responsible for her sudden change of tactics. 

“Mr. Fallowes, ” she said, looking at him demurely 
from under the shade of her straw-hat, "I promised 
Tom to be very good to you. Do you think it quite fair 
that my goodness should be the only kind in evidence?” 

“ Certainly not, Miss Draycott. I am ready to exhibit 
my own on any field you may suggest.” 

“ Then will you tell me whether you recall a single 
poem you ever wrote?” 

He flushed and looked conscious this time, but he 
managed to say, after a moment’s perceptible embarrass- 
ment, “I certainly cannot recall two.” 

Dorothy dropped her eyes; her fingers smoothed the 
fringes of her parasol meditatively. Some experiences 
of her own proved of service to her now. “ One would 
not be likely to forget the first poem that one ever 
wrote,” she said. “ It would be an event. Do you 
remember yours, Mr. Fallowes?” 

“No more than I do my first word.” In spite of his 
real embarrassment, Philip perceived he was being 
steadily driven to the wall by subtle feminine processes. 

Then Dorothy turned and brought all the spell of 
those bright, challenging eyes to bear upon him. “ Mr. 
Fallowes,” she said, with such charming entreaty of 
voice and tone that it seemed no mortal man could resist 
them, “ will you show your goodness, as you promised, by 
repeating your last poem to me?” 

This time Philip’s face burned. He was conscious 


THE POEM PHILIP FALLOWES REMEMBERED 323 


of it, which, did not make the matter easier for him. 
There was a little pause. How loud the robins sang 
in the trees! 

Philip’s thoughts and emotions were, for an instant 
or two, in a very chaotic condition. 

But memory was busy at that moment. He was 
wondering how it would have seemed to him in the old 
Colorado days, if he could have foreseen that the future 
held for him an hour like this — an hour when he would 
be sitting with Dorothy Draycott amid the May blos- 
soms of a Hew England orchard, while she urged him 
to repeat the poem, all unconscious that it had any rela- 
tion to herself, which he had written after he had first 
seen her in the pine woods ! Should he — could he — do 
it? It began to seem to him the right and fitting thing. 
After he had gone away, would he not like to look back 
and remember this hour, and be glad he had done what 
she had asked? The scene, the circumstances, sud- 
denly struck his imagination as being in fine harmony 
with all which had gone before! If he refused now, 
would he not regret it always? 

Meanwhile, Dorothy was watching him keenly from 
under her dark-brown lashes. She was on the qui vive. 
The whole thing began to be interesting, exciting, like 
a play. But she sat very still. The pause seemed 
longer to Philip than to herself. When he spoke, he 
had made up his mind. 

“The circumstances were, perhaps, a little peculiar.” 
He stopped short and brushed off, unconsciously, some 
of the petals which had drifted to his knee. 

Dorothy’s thought leaped to a swift conclusion. There 
was some romance behind this. She was sure of it. 
And these big, masterful creatures who carried the 


324 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


world on their shoulders always needed a little femi- 
nine tact to help them out of — places ! A triumphant 
laugh was rippling all through Dorothy, but it only 
peeped out cautiously in her eyes and glimmered at the 
corners of her mouth. 

“ Those are what I am also eager to hear — the cir- 
cumstances,” said Dorothy softly and demurely. 

“They will not take long to tell. I was alone at a 
hotel,” Philip spoke lightly and rapidly now, as one who 
hurries over details, “ in a rather out-of-the-way place, 
where I had come the night before to await the arrival of 
some friends. The next morning I started off for some 
fishing in the neighborhood. On my return I came upon 
some old pine woods. The shade and coolness were de- 
licious after my exercise. I went in and threw myself 
upon the ground. In two minutes I must have been fast 
asleep.” 

“ And then — something happened? ” 

“Yes.” Philip paused a moment in the effort to make 
his descriptive sketch as brief and slight as possible. 
But there was no danger that Dorothy would get any 
inkling of the truth. Nothing within the range of her 
knowledge — nothing in her preconceived ideas — could 
have given her the remotest notion that she had any 
personal relation with Philip’s story. 

“A young girl,” he resumed, “rode into the wood. I 
woke at the sound of her horse’s feet; I was lying in 
the shadow of the trees and she did not discover me; 
she checked her horse, — a superb creature, — gazed about 
the wood, patted his neck and talked to him. Then she 
fastened her hair — a part of which had fallen loose — 
and soon rode away. The scene did not last, probably, 
five minutes.” 


THE POEM PHILIP FALLOWES REMEMBERED 325 


“But it was long enough to inspire your poem, Mr. 
Fallowes?” Dorothy veiled mischievous glances once 
more with those brown-lashed lids. “After such an 
introduction, I am more eager to hear it than you can 
imagine.” 

In this way — with just a touch of feminine coquetry 
in smile and glance and tone — she had brought him to 
the point! 

Philip’s voice had a fine, resonant quality and the 
verses — when it came to those — did not lose anything 
in his rendering. 


i 

Through my slumber flashed a sound 
Where the swift hoofs beat the ground, 
Where the pale lights lay across 
The pine-needles and the moss; 

And a face gleamed in the gloom, 

Like a tall, white lily’s bloom; 

Then I saw her sitting there 
In that cloud of loosened hair. 

n 

She was in the dew and dawn 
Of her girlhood’s joyous morn; 

And her great, brown, glancing eyes 
Swept the wood in glad surprise; 

And their splendor dazzled so 
That the pine-boles seemed aglow 
In the green wild where I lay, — 
Where I watched her ride away. 


326 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


III 

I shall hear her voice again 
As she stroked her horse’s mane; 

Hear her laugh — its low, sweet sound 
In the plaintive pine winds drowned; 

I shall see the glad surprise 
In those great, brown, glancing eyes ; 

See the red-gold in her hair 
By the sunbeam slanting there. 

IV 

But the Marvel of that time 
Swells to deeper chords my rhyme; 

And the praise supreme, instead 
Of all lesser praise be said ! — 

When I saw that young girl’s face, 

Its rare charm — its unnamed grace — 

As I gazed up from the sod, 

Seemed to draw me nearer — God ! 

Dorothy listened — the fun and triumph fairly rioting 
in her veiled eyes, and finding it all she could do to 
keep the corners of her mouth in their natural curves. 
“Yes; it was as she had thought — he was repeating a 
lover’s ditty to her — original, at that! How had she 
brought it about? With his reserves, too, and in less 
than half an hour! Was it a tribute to her own fasci- 
nations or partly owing to the morning and the blossom- 
ing apple-trees and the birds in full song up there in the 
boughs ? ” 

Philip had only glanced at her once during the recital 
— a glance that just grazed the delicate profile and 
caught the listening attitude. 


THE POEM PHILIP FALLOWES REMEMBERED 327 


His voice ceased. A change, a surprise, a kind of 
awed bewilderment, had crept into Dorothy’s veiled 
eyes. That last verse — especially that last line — had 
come so unexpectedly, giving a new meaning to the 
poem — shedding a great interpreting light upon it. It 
was like the effect of some sudden burst of grand organ- 
music into a careless, trivial mood — summoning the soul 
to the higher aspirations, the larger endeavors, and the 
nobler activities of life, and lo! in a moment one is on 
another plane, in a finer air, and with a broadened 
horizon on every side. 

The pause was a rather prolonged one. When Dorothy 
broke it, she did not lift her eyes ; but the subtle change 
which comes of an altered mood was in her voice as she 
asked, “Mr. Fallowes, would you mind — will you be 
kind enough to repeat that poem again? ” 

Philip repeated it. 


328 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XL 

THAT MEMORABLE MAY-MORNING 

Dorothy lifted her head and looked Philip in the 
face. “Mr. Fallowes,” she said, “do you know those 
words are the greatest — the best — a man could pos- 
sibly say of a woman?” 

“Yes; I know, Miss Draycott!” It struck her there 
was a little, exultant thrill in his voice. 

“ And — excuse me — did you ever see her after 
that?” 

“ Oh, yes — several times. We had, as I learned 
afterwards, some mutual friends.” 

“ I should have imagined that must have been a great 
test for her. The familiar — the common daylight — is 
apt to be — disenchanting. One who has high ideals 
is liable to be jarred or disappointed,” she added, half 
apologetically. 

“I understand you, Miss Draycott. But — she bore 
the test.” That little, exultant note in his voice struck 
her ear again. 

“And she did not know about the poem?” 

“She did not know,” said Philip; but he felt a slight 
twinge of conscience. 

Dorothy was all alive — thrilled now with an eager 
interest and curiosity regarding that unknown girl — 
the heroine of Philip’s lyric. Here was something 
finer and higher than she had ever dreamed. Xo doubt 


THAT MEMORABLE MAY-MORNING 


329 


it was romantic, but it was so much more than that — it 
had the noble ideal — which raised it above all weakness 
and mawkish sentimentality. She was eager to ask 
a hundred questions about the girl, but her insight 
was too true to admit of her doing that. It would 
only mean the “lesser praises,” only be striking the 
lower note. One remark, however, she did venture. 
“Did you say, or did I imagine, that she was very 
young?” 

“Very. A mere slip of a girl — a child on one side 
of her nature, as I found when we talked together.” 

Dorothy felt she could go no farther. But after a 
short silence, her curiosity, or some deeper feeling, 
forced her on. She drew a long breath; she bent a 
little forward. “Mr. Pallowes, I have no right to ask 
you another question, but, ” with just a touch of appeal 
in her voice, “is there nothing more you can tell me 
about that girl?” 

Philip was silent a few moments, — long enough to 
make Dorothy feel that her impulse had carried her too 
far, — when he turned suddenly and looked at her. She 
met, for the first time, the depth and power of his dark- 
gray eyes when they were irradiated with feeling. They 
fairly dazzled her. 

“It is not all I can tell you, Miss Draycott,” he re- 
plied, with a low vibration in his voice. “ That young 
girl — the thought of her, the memory of what she 
was — were all in the world I had to cling to when every 
hope was gone and every prop had failed, and she — 
well — she saved me ! ” 

The words thrilled some new chord in Dorothy’s 
nature. She drew another quick breath and still her 
hands, from which she had drawn off the gloves, kept 


330 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


up their unconscious movement with the fringes of her 
parasol. 

And again she asked, “And she does not know?” 

And again Philip answered, with that little inward 
twinge, “She does not know.” 

When Dorothy spoke next, it was in a slow, faltering 
tone, unlike her usual, swift, clear one. “ It is all very 
beautiful, but — I cannot understand it.” 

If Philip Fallowes and Dorothy Draycott w'ere relat- 
ing this story, I do not believe either could remember 
just how it began. But in a little while he found him- 
self telling her of that night at Miner’s Rest when his 
young manhood’s heart and courage — for the first time 
and the last — had all broken down, and his life had 
lost all purpose and incentive. As he talked, the 
deadly homesickness, the awful solitude, the crushing 
despair, came back again, and the mad impulse to get 
rid of these in any form — at any cost; he could not, 
of course, dwell long, to those young ears, on the point 
where his misery had reached its nadir, but her quick 
apprehension seized the vital import of those rapid sen- 
tences. 

Then the later scene had its turn; here the story 
lingered and missed no detail. The scene was drawn in 
clear, sharp lines; he was making his way with mad 
desperation down the rude trail when the moon rose 
over the mountain peak — just the moon in her old way 
— but that night she brought with it her message for 
him. In a moment he was not seeing the moon any 
more; he was seeing the face of that girl in the sum- 
mer-morning, among the old pine-boles; and it was 
meaning to him all that it had meant for him then; 
and the memory — the purest and finest one he had 


THAT MEMORABLE MAY-MORNING 


331 


brought away from his past — had been powerful enough 
to bring him to a sudden halt, to hold him, to fill him 
with such remorse that he turned back. And Philip 
told then — as only the man who had lived it could tell 
— of the hours that followed in the dim, moonlit pine 
woods, and of the resolve he had formed that night and 
never lost sight of amid all the struggles and tempta- 
tions, amid all the stumblings and failures which had 
followed. It was a young girl’s face, — a young girl’s 
memory, — but they had come back, and again he said 
exultingly, “ they had saved him ! ” 

Dorothy Draycott sat very still ; she had listened with 
all her senses and with all her soul ; she could not have 
believed anything so high and beautiful could have 
happened in real life. If she had read it, she would 
have thought such things belonged to the realm of no- 
blest fiction — to the dreams of poets. Her fingers still 
kept up their involuntary movement among the fringes 
of her parasol, but her eyes were on his face — those 
eyes that seemed to listen ; that had drawn him on ; that 
had witnessed for her, as no words could have done, 
how his story had stirred her — how deep the response 
of her soul had been. 

When the pause came , at last, and it was her turn to 
speak, she said, “But there must have been the living 
afterward ! ” 

“Yes,” said Philip very gravely; “there was the 
living afterward, or the trying for it.” 

Dorothy traced some figures in the young orchard- 
grass with the point of her parasol. Philip watched the 
bowed head and waited for her to speak, and wondered 
if he should awake in a little while and find all this the 
most blissful of dreams. 


332 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


Dorothy looked up suddenly and said, swiftly, ap- 
pealingly, “ I wish you would tell me something more, 
Mr. Fallowes.” 

“There does not seem anything more to tell.” Philip 
answered, as though he questioned with himself. 

“Oh, but there must be! I mean things must have 
happened — times must have come — when such a mem- 
ory, such an influence, would be present and powerful. 
She — the thought of her — must, I think, have helped 
you to help others.” 

Her instinct had gone swift as an arrow to the mark! 
Philip felt that profoundly in the pause which came 
before he answered. “You are right, Miss Draycott. If 
ever chances came up when I could do something for 
other people, my first thought was, how it would 
strike her. I did it largely for her sake — as a kind of 
inadequate acknowledgment of all she had been to, all 
she had done for, me.” 

“ Oh, I wish — do excuse me again — you would tell me 
something about those other people ! ” 

This was the way she led him on — at least, so far as 
words could — but her eyes, her voice, a little tremu- 
lousness about the sensitive mouth, — all had their 
cumulative effect. After he began, it was not easy to 
stop. Philip told something of his life at Miner’s Kest, 
and what he had tried to make of it. Then it was 
natural that, with such a listener, the talk should take 
a more concrete form. Philip was telling Dorothy 
Draycott about the night he went down into Aspen 
Hollow, compelled there by the memory of that young 
girl, after he had turned away and started for his cabin. 
He was careful not to mention the name of the man 
whom he had rescued, and Dorothy never dreamed of 


THAT MEMORABLE MAY-MORXING 


333 


identifying it with that of Caleb Crafts, the discoverer 
of Ten O’Clock Mine, the friend of Philip, and the man 
largely associated with his present fortunes. Neither 
did he enter on the details of the long struggle which 
had ensued in his cabin; but Dorothy imagined more or 
less of that, while he went on setting in strong lights 
the loyal nature, the real manhood, which had been res- 
cued and rehabilitated. 

When the story was done, Dorothy made no comment. 
There was no need of that. Philip read something in 
her eyes which was more to him than any words. 

She broke the pause at last with a low, eager, “Is 
there no more to tell?” 

So she learned of Jessie Peeves. Philip’s repugnance, 
moral and physical, to turning back after he rode away 
from Trapper’s Glen, had been much more intense and 
prolonged than in the former instance. But Dorothy 
learned how the compelling, rebuking eyes had con- 
strained him; how he had turned back when he was 
miles away. The few sentences which followed were 
like strong, rapid strokes of pencil or brush. Dorothy 
saw the pretty, unsuspecting girl as she entered the 
room and took her place at the breakfast-table among 
the men, of whom Philip only said that he knew, when 
he looked in their faces, they were three of the vilest 
wretches walking the earth! The talk which he had 
managed to overhear on his return had, if possible, 
strengthened his first conviction. A few sentences de- 
scribed the bear-hunt, and the interview snatched in a 
few breathless moments outside the inn, and on the 
decision of which everything hung. 

When it came to the long, perilous ride, there was 
something more of detail. Philip lived it all over as 


334 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


he talked, and his voice — even his lips under the 
brown mustache — trembled a little. 

Dorothy listened breathless — her eyes dry and bright, 
and her face getting pale. When Philip saw that, he 
checked himself. “I should not have told you this, 
Miss Draycott,” he said. 

“Oh, do go on,” she almost gasped, and a few moments 
later the tears were flashing in her eyes over the safe 
arrival at Murray’s Cattle Kanch. 

But when Philip ceased talking, the gulf had been 
bridged. The intangible something which had baffled 
and annoyed Dorothy Draycott in all her relations with 
Philip Fallowes had vanished now. The old effort and 
self-consciousness of their former intercourse could never 
return with either. 

This does not mean, however, that these young people 
were thinking of each other as lovers, in the way the 
world understands that word. People may have reveal- 
ing experiences of this sort, and afterward other voices, 
and slighter ones, may allure and bewilder and constrain. 
But with Dorothy the chord which had been touched 
had responded with a vibration so deep and strong that 
it had awed and amazed her. For a little while the two 
souls had stood apart in a rarer atmosphere and each, 
in its own way, had spoken to the other. One who is 
capable of such an experience does not forget it. In 
the deeper moods, in the nobler moments of life, memory 
brings back the hour and the experience. 

Into the silence came suddenly a long, sweet, melodi- 
ous note, and then another and another. 

“What is that?” exclaimed' Philip, turning his 
pleased, startled eyes on Dorothy. 

“ 4 The horns of Elfland softly blowing ? ’ ” 


THAT MEMORABLE MAY-MORNING 


335 


“ Oh, nothing so romantic ! But it cannot be possible 
it is nearly one o’clock! ” 

Philip glanced at his watch. They had been sitting 
there more than three hours, and it did not seem like one ! 

After their amazement had a little subsided, Dorothy 
went on to explain: “That is the horn which aunty 
Dayles occasionally uses to apprise people, who have 
roamed far afield, that it is dinner-time! But only 
special guests are so honored; for that ancient horn 
is a very precious heirloom. Her husband’s greatgrand- 
father brought it with him, when he came to this coun- 
try — a century and a half ago. It had done duty in 
the family as a stage-horn for almost a century before. 
As the family came originally from Warwickshire, I 
like to fancy Shakspere himself may possibly have 
heard it winding over his native hills and dales ! ” 

“I should like to blow one blast on that horn,” ex- 
claimed Philip, and his laugh now was the gay, boyish 
laugh which his uncle Badleigh had loved. 

Dorothy laughed too — the rippling laugh which made 
the sweetest music of Bed Knolls. “ I can promise you 
shall have your wish, Mr. Fallowes. But, really, it is 
high time we were going to dinner ! ” 

The reaction had come after the long tension of those 
hours. They felt a sudden freedom with each other, 
like happy boy and girl. 

They went home in the stillness, the broad light, and 
the heat of the noonday. They did not say much to 
each other. Philip had, amid all his bliss, an occa- 
sional qualm of conscience, reflecting how successfully 
he had concealed from Dorothy the fact that she herself 
formed the central figure, the inspiring motive, of the 
events he related. 


386 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT*S TO-MORROWS 


As they drew near the side-gate, — a pretty rustic 
design of cedar boughs, by Mrs. Dayles’s younger son, 
who had succeeded his father as master of Cherry Farms, 
but who was now absent on a visit to his elder brother in 
Western New York, — Dorothy exclaimed: “There is 
aunty Dayles at the window. She is smiling and 
beckoning to us ! ” 

Philip took off his hat; Dorothy waved her parasol. 
Just after they had entered the gate, she stood still, 
turned to Philip, and said, earnestly: “ Mr. Fallowes, I 
do not know how to thank you for all you have told me 
this morning; but I think I shall be gladder all my life 
to know such things have happened.” 


“I WILL FIND A WAY!” SHE SAID 337 


XLI 

“ I WILL FIND A WAY ! ” SHE SAID 

That evening Dorothy Draycott came out and walked 
alone on the piazza. May and June were drawing close 
to each other, and to-night a rounding moon shone brave 
among her flocking stars, instead of the pallid, fright- 
ened one which had glanced out at intervals between 
the flying clouds when she and Philip had walked to- 
gether the night before. 

Dorothy moved back and forth, sometimes quickly, 
sometimes slowly; she was glad to be alone that night; 
she wanted to work out her thoughts clearly. For some 
unaccountable reason, she felt as though she had grown 
years older since morning. 

Philip and Dorothy had found company at dinner — 
friends of Mrs. Dayles from the next town. The pres- 
ence of the strangers was, on the whole, a relief to the 
young people, who were not in a mood for conversation. 
Philip had a consciousness of voices and laughter, and 
supposed he must have taken some share in the talk, and 
have generally comported himself so as not to attract 
observation; but, beyond that, his first dinner at Cherry 
Farms remains, to this day, a blank in his memory. 

Soon after dinner, the young people had excused them- 
selves and gone to their rooms, leaving Mrs. Dayles with 
her guests. When these had gone, Dorothy came down- 
stairs, but she had hardly joined her hostess when a 
messenger rode in hot haste to the door. A former 
z 


838 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’s TO-MORROWS 


neighbor of Mrs. Dayles — mother of a large family — 
had, without a moment’s warning, been taken acutely 
ill. The household, including several children, was 
helpless and demoralized. In the confusion and dis- 
tress, somebody suggested Mrs. Dayles, whose quieting 
presence and efficiency, in crises of this kind, were recog- 
nized throughout the county. A messenger rode in 
breathless haste to Cherry Farms, eight miles away. 
There could be but one answer to his appeal. As soon 
as he had received her promise, he spurred away to 
carry back the welcome tidings of her speedy appear- 
ance. Then Mrs. Dayles remembered that both the 
farm-men were absent, and would not be back for 
hours. There was the horse to be harnessed, and no 
masculine service at command! 

“Never mind, aunty Dayles,” exclaimed Dorothy, 
her native energy mounting to the occasion; “get your- 
self ready and I will put old Sorrel in the shafts 
myself ! ” 

At that instant they heard the click of the gate-latch. 
Philip had just returned from the post-office, to which 
he had gone for his mail more than an hour before. 

A few sentences from Dorothy explained the situation. 
Philip’s Pocky Mountain experiences made him prompt 
in dealing with all sorts of practical emergencies. Old 
Sorrel and the buggy were at the gate as Mrs. Dayles 
appeared at the side door. Philip insisted on accom- 
panying her. 

And, in this way, it happened that Dorothy Draycott 
was, a few hours later, walking alone on the piazza at 
Cherry Farms. 

But no companionship could have been so agreeable 
to her as that solitude. The talk to which she had 


“I WILL FIND A WAY!” SHE SAID 339 


listened that morning under the apple-tree had never 
been absent a moment from her deeper consciousness; 
she wanted to be all alone with it, to go over with it 

— even the tones and looks which had been a part of it. 
This was the reason why she was so glad to be alone in 
that soft May night, which was fast wheeling the world, 
with all its fresh green, its fragrance, and its seas of 
unfolding bloom, into the waiting arms of summer ; she 
would have all that evening to herself. The two or 
three women left in charge of the household would not 
disturb her. 

Dorothy’s thoughts and feelings were still vibrating 
with what she had heard. It had appealed to her imag- 
ination, to the poetic instincts, to the deep enthusiasms 
of her nature. “It was a great thing,” she told herself, 
“ to know that such an experience had been lived — not 
talked about, not dreamed over, not written of in books, 
but just simply, resolutely, persistently lived! And 
what tests there had been — years of absence and dis- 
tance, and the hard life, and the rough associations! It 
had all been so sane and wholesome and manly, too 

— a kind of joyful note all through! 

Then she fell to thinking of that girl — to wondering 
about her. How would she feel if she knew? How did 
she seem to other eyes? Was she, after all, only some 
pretty, commonplace girl whom Philip’s imagination 
had idealized and raised to such a supernal height? If 
he were to know the real woman after all these years, 
would he be saddened and disillusioned? That would 
be worst of all! 

Then, in a little while, other thoughts came up. She 
was thinking of her own life as she had never thought of 
it before. Some mood of inexplicable sadness and lone- 


340 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


liness crept in upon her, as they creep in at times upon 
all young, joyous souls. When she stood still for a 
moment and glanced up at the skies, the stars looked 
down, far, cold, inexorable. When she thought of Eed 
Knolls, too, the words of her father, on a night when 
the winter winds cried high in the shrubbery, came up 
to her with a sort of prophetic significance, which she 
had not felt at the time. “My dear child, this sort of 
life will not go on forever.” 

She put out her hands with a sudden, involuntary 
gesture, as one does at something which repels or hurts. 

“ If a love like the one to whose story she had listened 
that morning came into a woman’s life — ” here Dorothy 
resumed her walk and drew up her head haughtily; she 
did not know precisely to what conclusion her wander- 
ing thoughts pointed — at all events, she was not going 
to pursue them! A moment later she was telling her- 
self, very decidedly, that her interest in young Fal- 
lowes’s talk had been an entirely impersonal one; she 
had listened to what he had told her — told her only of 
all the world! She had been honored by such a confi- 
dence; she must always feel grateful to him for it. 

In one respect Dorothy’s instinct had been clear and 
true; she was certain that Philip Fallowes did not regard 
himself in the light of a lover; she could understand, 
too, how all the circumstances — the absence of the 
charm and power of human presence, the long lack of 
any personal knowledge, as well as the quality of 
Philip’s own regard — all had contributed to the uncon- 
sciousness which, to most persons, would have seemed 
absurd. It was inevitable that he should be forced, in his 
talk that morning, to bring himself much into the fore- 
ground; but this was solely, she saw, to throw into 


“I WILL FIND A WAY!” SHE SAID 341 


stronger relief all lie owed to that girl, all she had 
been to him. It was perfectly evident he was thinking 
of her — never once of exploiting himself — when he 
had told his story. 

But if somebody could interpose now — somebody who 
knew all the facts — and bring those two together, she 
believed Philip would not be long in discovering the 
real nature of his feelings. It struck her for the first 
time as singular that he had never since his return — at 
least she had inferred as much from his talk — made an 
effort to see the young girl who had exercised so pro- 
found an influence on his life. 

She could not ask him about this, however, as she 
could not make several other inquiries about which she 
felt a strong curiosity. “ It is not likely we shall ever 
recur to the subject again,” she said to herself. 

She was walking slowly now, her head bent forward 
a little in reflection. The light in the hall shed through 
the open door a broad illuminated space on the piazza, 
across which her shadow was thrown as she went to and 
fro. There was no sound in the stillness except that of 
little winds gossiping in the leaves over their own secrets. 

Dorothy’s figure suddenly paused in the light which 
came through the open doorway. She had been think- 
ing again, “ There is nobody who knows ! ” Then she 
remembered there was just one person! That was her- 
self! Just behind this came that other thought, “ Would 
it be possible for her to interpose in any way — to bring 
Philip Fallowes and that young girl — seven years on 
seventeen would mean she was no longer a slip of a girl 
— together ! ” 

It was this thought which had brought Dorothy to 
that sudden standstill on the piazza. In a few moments 


342 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


she had resumed her walk; but her movements were 
rapid now, impelled by the intrusion of new thoughts 
which had been making some strange perplexity and 
vague trouble within her. 

“No; I cannot do it! ” she was saying, with a singular 
pertinacity to herself. “ It would be meddlesome, indeli- 
cate, impossible! It is not my business. I shall cer- 
tainly not seek to hinder. It is not my place to help.” 

Suddenly — in a corner of the piazza this time — 
Dorothy Draycott came again to a standstill. The 
beautiful head bridled. There was a flash of triumph in 
the great, brown eyes; there was another flash through 
all her being. It came suddenly, mysteriously, over- 
poweringly; but almost before it passed, it had dis- 
closed its real nature: it had been one of hatred to 
that unknown girl! 

The surprise — the shock of the consciousness — made 
Dorothy stagger back with a little cry. It seemed as 
though that moment, that flash, had burned itself into 
her soul. She. would not pause to analyze — to think 
what it meant. Indeed, she knew too well. If she 
could only get rid of that feeling which had set her 
heart into those wild throbs, and the blood beating 
fierce in her pulses! 

In a little while she had resumed her walk; her face 
was white, her steps hurried and eager, like one who is 
seeking, blindly, to get away from some pursuing thing; 
but these gradually grew steadier as thought and pur- 
pose calmed and cleared themselves. For now Dorothy 
Draycott was making up her mind to the thing she 
would do — the thing she had said she would not do. 
She was the only one in the world who could do it — 
because she was the only one in the world who knew ! 


“I WILL FIND A WAY!” SHE SAID 343 

“I will find a way,” she said. “I will tell him to see 
her — to tell her all he has told me ! ” 

And when she glanced up at the stars, she saw them 
looking down upon her shining and steadfast. 

She went over all Philip had told her that day. But 
it was the last words of his poem — that poem written 
in his undergraduate days and inspired, as it must 
have appeared to others, by so slight an event — to 
which her thoughts turned oftenest and where they lin- 
gered longest. 

She felt an intense curiosity regarding that girl of 
whom they had been written — to whom they belonged. 
If she knew now, how would she receive them? Would 
she put them away at first with an involuntary gesture 
of awe and renouncement, as one does some great, inef- 
fable gift before which one feels rebuked and unworthy? 
Would she go glad and reverent all her days, remem- 
bering such words had once been spoken of her, and 
struggling — at least in her nobler moments, and under 
human conditions — to live up to their height ? How 
small and trivial personal vanities must seem — what a 
false note the old praises and flatteries would have — to 
her now ! She might be fully conscious of her beauty, 
but now it must have some new meaning — something 
that other eyes would never find in it. It should be 
enough for her that one pair of eyes had seen — one 
voice had spoken it! Then Carlyle’s words flashed 
across her : “ A man can only see that which he brings 
eyes for seeing.” 

Dorothy fell to wondering again if what Philip had 
seen, or believed he saw, in that girl’s face, was really 
there ! 

Then her thoughts took a wider range. Did not such 


344 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


words interpret the real significance of love, of marriage? 
Was not that the ideal of wifehood — reflecting in dim, 
finite ways and amid finite conditions, something of the 
Infinite Love? 

Then Dorothy remembered that her father would have 
said just this highest thing of her mother. Would not 
John Amoury say it of his wife? And Benjamin Dayles 
must often have felt it was true of his own. There 
must be wives all over the world of whom men could 
say — in their own ways — what Philip had said of that 
unknown girl in his poem! There must be husbands all 
over the world for whom wifehood had illustrated the 
sweetness, the tenderness, the nobility of womanhood. 

Beflections of this sort were quite novel to the girl 
who was pacing her rounds under the watching stars. 

It was very late when Dorothy went in, joining the 
woman who, in Mrs. Dayles’s absence, had been left in 
charge, and who had been long on the watch for Philip’s 
return. While they were talking, the buggy drove up 
to the gate. 

Dorothy went out into the hall to meet young Fal- 
lowes, who brought encouraging reports. The doctor had 
pronounced the sick woman out of danger. She had 
broken down suddenly and absolutely, under the strain 
of added responsibilities and overwork. Mrs. Dayles’s 
presence and efficiency had acted like a spell on the dis- 
tracted household. 

The young people did not prolong their talk. It was 
approaching midnight when Dorothy went to her room. 
She lay awake a good while, pondering some plans for 
the next day. When she heard the ancient clock in the 
hall below strike one, she knew it was summer again, and 
turned over and went to sleep. 


WHERE AND HOW IT WAS TOLD 


345 


XLII 

WHERE AND HOW IT WAS TOLD 

The next morning, after breakfast, of which the 
young people managed to make a cheerful and highly 
social meal, they came out on the piazza and stood look- 
ing on the great level meadows aglow with wild flowers, 
a-sparkle with dews. 

“ What a live morning it is ! ” exclaimed Dorothy. 
“ The birds are certainly doing their part at celebrating 
the return of summer.” 

“ I thought the oriole who sang at my window so glo- 
riously this morning must feel in every note that it was 
June!” 

“Oh, yes; I heard him too.” Dorothy turned as she 
spoke and snipped off a few dead leaves from a rose- 
bush, thick with buds and dews, close to the piazza- 
railing, and she continued: “Poor Tom! It will be 
hard lines for him to-day. We used always to be off 
together, soon after breakfast, when we were here and 
it was June, and the weather like this! ” 

“But as he is not here, will you allow me, Miss 
Draycott, to represent him in some poor fashion, and — 
take your first June walk this morning?” 

This was the way she brought it about. This was 
what she was thinking of when she plucked the dead 
leaves from the rose-bush. 

They went out together as soon as Dorothy had made 
herself ready — a process which did not require much 


346 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


time. She was dressed as she had been yesterday; a 
fact which Philip observed and was as much delighted 
as though it had been a matter of greater importance. 
For he wanted to remember her always as she had 
looked to him when they sat under the apple-tree, and 
he had confided to her the thing which was most sacred 
and jealously guarded in his life. As for the day itself, 
it seemed, in its skies and air, in its sunshine and 
bloom, a piece of yesterday, with a starry, moon-flooded 
night between. They went the old way — through the 
deep lane, under the cherry-trees, amid whose blossoms 
swarms of bees were darting and humming. When they 
reached the end of the lane, Philip turned toward her 
with a questioning glance; she nodded, and they kept 
on toward the orchard. 

The thing which she had made up her mind to say to 
him, could — it seemed to her — be said more easily 
under that old tree, where they sat yesterday, than 
anywhere else. 

But Philip had never seen Dorothy so gay. There 
was a flush in her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes, 
when he glanced at her, which fairly dazzled him. 
Her mood — or something else — infected him. That 
walk to the orchard was full of jest and mirth and 
bright repartee. A stranger would have thought those 
young people — the tall, beautiful girl, the strong, hand- 
some young fellow by her side — the gayest and hap- 
piest creatures in the world. 

They reached again, by winding road and dewy meadow 
path, by narrow foot-bridge and dipping corner of pas- 
ture-lot, the great orchard, where the petals were falling 
now in pink drifts with every breath of wind. They sat 
down again on the rustic bench. They kept on, for a 


WHERE AND HOW IT WAS TOLD 


347 


little while, a strain of light talk; then a pause inter- 
vened. Philip glanced at Dorothy, and it struck him 
that her face had grown serious. 

Under all the gayety of her speech and manner, which 
had been less spontaneous on her part than was usually 
the case, Dorothy’s will had held itself resolutely to the 
purpose she had formed — under some powerful stress 
of feeling — the night before; she had never, for an 
instant, lost sight of it that morning; she had planned 
this walk with direct reference to carrying out her 
decision. 

The pause was just long enough to mark the change 
from one mood to another. “I have been thinking a 
great deal of what you told me yesterday, Mr. Fallowes,” 
began the clear, soft-throated voice. “Will you excuse 
me for returning to the subject — for saying what I 
have been thinking?” 

“ I shall be very glad to have you say anything you 
like to me, Miss Draycott,” replied Philip, but he was 
certainly startled. 

“ Then I think you should tell that young girl — all 
you have told me ! ” 

The blood leaped to his brown cheek. She saw him 
bend down and gather up in his palm a little handful 
of fallen petals and then toss them away, and she knew 
he was quite unconscious of either action ; he was simply 
trying to gain time before he spoke. 

“ Will you tell me what has made you think this? ” he 
asked, at last. 

It was just the opening Dorothy wanted. “Because 
it must be a great, a beautiful thing, to know one has 
been — has done so much for another. I think it would 
make all her life seem something nobler and more sacred.” 


348 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

Philip’s eyes were on the greensward. She saw the 
color had deepened in his cheek, but she was now too 
deeply concerned with her own share in the drama to 
think much of his ; she was convinced — it must be 
borne in mind — of the state of his affections ; his 
obliviousness in the past might perhaps have served 
him better than if a lover’s conscious passion had 
mingled with the exaltation and ideality of his regard. 
But, Dorothy reasoned, a man like him would not be 
long in discovering the true state of his feelings if he 
and that girl could once be brought together. As for 
the girl herself — what she would think or feel on know- 
ing she had borne so high and intimate a part in a man’s 
fate, would depend, of course, upon the depth and quality 
of her own nature. But all that, Dorothy concluded 
mentally, with lofty decision, was not in the least her 
affair. 

But she might not have interposed — she certainly 
would not have been so persistent in what followed, if she 
had not been conscious of her first strong repugnance to 
doing this thing; if the memory of some passion, which 
had flamed in her soul and thrilled through her pulses, 
had not forced her on. She was not afraid of Philip 
Pallowes; she was not afraid of anybody or anything in 
the world but — herself! 

Philip turned suddenly and bent a searching glance 
on Dorothy. There was something in its depth which 
she did not understand. “ Do you think it would have 
that effect on her?” His voice was very quiet, but it 
gave her the impression of strong, repressed feeding. 

“Yes.” Dorothy breathed the word softly, but dis- 
tinctly. 

Philip’s gaze turned to the grass again. “ I have never 


WHERE AND HOW IT WAS TOLD 


349 


dreamed of doing what you suggest.” And the quiet 
voice gave her still some vague impression of strong 
feeling held in leash. “ There are reasons which I 
cannot explain. No! It is impossible I should tell 
her! ” 

It seemed to her that, with these words, he shrank a 
little through all his young, muscular frame. 

“ But if you were making a mistake — one you might 
be sorry for all your life?” she urged softly. 

“ What makes you think such a thing possible, Miss 
Draycott? ” and he ground the grass under his boot-heel. 

“ Because she has a right to know.” 

“ A right ! ” 

“Yes,” responded Dorothy, almost with vehemence, 
because her part in all this talk was a perfunctory one 
and seemed to be getting more and more gratuitous as 
she proceeded. “ The woman who has been to you what 
she has been, has a right to know it. I think it is your 
duty to tell her! ” 

Again Philip turned and looked at Dorothy. There was 
something in his eyes — a depth, a bright intensity — 
which might have stirred her woman’s intuitions if she 
had not been wholly possessed by another idea. What- * 
ever she saw in his eyes, she believed their meaning was 
altogether for another. 

“It has never struck me in that light, Miss Draycott. 

I cannot see my way clear to do what you insist I should,” 
he concluded rather ineffectively, his thoughts full of a 
confusion and agitation which, under all the outward 
show of calmness, he was trying to master. 

“I do not want to be intrusive,” rejoined Dorothy, 
her sense of maidenly reserve warning her that she could 
not go on much longer. “ But sometimes women — girls 


350 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

• — have a truer and deeper insight in matters of this 
kind than your own sex.” 

There was a touch of apology in Dorothy’s voice. She 
had begun to ask herself why she was assuming such a 
responsibility in this man’s fate. All the time she felt 
goaded on in spite of herself, by some feeling, some 
dread, she could not or would not stop to analyze. 

There was a little silence. The day was growing hot; 
the dews had disappeared from the grass; the birds’ 
songs grew fainter in the apple-boughs. 

Then Philip spoke again. She felt some inexplicable 
change in his voice. “Will you tell me, Miss Draycott, 
if it were your own self — if — if you were that girl, you 
would wish — you would be glad to know?” 

And Dorothy answered, “I should wish — I should 
be glad to know.” 

There was another pause. Dorothy spoke once more. 
She knew this would be her last appeal. Whenever, 
in the future, she recalled this hour, it should be with 
no accusing memory rising in her consciousness. She 
must be able to tell her soul she had done all and more 
for another than she would have asked for herself. “ Mr. 
Fallowes, do you not see I am right? Will you not prom- 
ise me that you will seek this girl — that you will tell 
her all you have told me? ” 

Philip Fallowes felt that the moment had come. He 
turned toward Dorothy ; his face was white, but his eyes 
held now a singular, penetrating brightness. “ I should 
not have to go far to seek or try long to find her. The 
girl of that old pine wood and of my poem is sitting 
beside me, Miss Draycott! ” 

He felt her start and quiver; he saw her bewildered, 
half-frightened glance; then he saw the blood leap scarlet 


WHERE AND HOW IT WAS TOLD 


351 


to her face one moment and leave it white the next; and 
he knew that she understood. 

A sound of swift feet crushed the grass ; a shout broke 
suddenly on the stillness. “Halloo, Fallowes! Affirm 
yourself, instanter ! ” 

Tom had returned ! 

That call of his old classmate jarred every nerve in 
Philip’s body; but his first thought was for Dorothy. 
She, at least, must be shielded at this crisis from facing 
her brother. The old habit of his Western life of being 
ready for emergencies on the instant, served him now. 
In a flash he was on his feet; in another, he emerged 
from the apple-tree. 

“I affirm myself, Draycott! What does this mean? 
Have you stolen the wings of the wind?” 

“Hot precisely; but I managed to board anight train, 
which, in the end, amounts to pretty much the same 
thing!” 

By this time the two young fellows had gripped each 
other’s hands. “I have arranged everything at the 
house,” Tom went on rapidly. “Rods and flies all in 
prime order — Wagon at the gate — Not a moment 
to lose ! You and I, Fallowes, are not to be cheated of 
our fun, after all! Splendid day for the streams! I 
arranged programme last night before I fell asleep to 
the shriek of the locomotive.” 

Fallowes thought of the girl he had left under the 
apple-tree. It seemed to him a good deal like standing 
up under the tortures of an Indian war-dance to adapt 
himself to Tom Draycott’s mood; but there was no help 
for it. “ Glorious day for the woods and brooks ! ” he 
rejoined. 

By this time they were making rapid strides for the 


852 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


wagon. Tom was in huge spirits; he had arrived about 
half an hour ago, and, to use his own metaphor, “ made 
things spin lively.” He had learned from one of the 
men, while they were busied with the fishing tackle, the 
cause of Mrs. Dayles’s absence. “ Dorothy was nowhere 
to be found,” he added. 

“ I certainly saw her a few minutes before I left the 
house,” exclaimed Philip, hoping his good angel would 
pardon the subterfuge. 

“ I understood from the man that you both had gone 
to visit the orchard,” continued Tom. “I must have got 
things mixed up somehow, in my hurry. At all events, 
she will learn, when she returns, about my getting back 
and carrying you off for the day. How have you been 
getting on, old fellow, at Cherry Farms?” 

“ Gloriously ! I shall bless you to the last day of my 
life, Draycott, for bringing me to this Paradise ! ” 

“For haling you here, you might better say. I 
had almost to get you off by force of arms, you remem- 
ber ! ” 

“I remember. How has the business turned out, 
Draycott?” 

“Without a flaw! Client is beatific over the turn of 
affairs! I had to rush things to get them through in 
shape in one day.” 

“ Yes — oh, yes — certainly.” 

Tom glanced at him and then continued, in his eager 
tone and high spirits, relating details of what had hap- 
pened and congratulating himself on their securing this 
day for the fishing. 

“Yes; oh, yes — by all means,” rejoined Philip, when 
the voice ceased at his side. 

Tom broke out now. “What ails you, Fallowes? 


WHERE AND HOW IT WAS TOLD 


353 


You haven’t heard one syllable of what I have been 
saying to you!” 

Philip, with a mighty effort, shook himself free from 
reflections, insisted that the fault was all on Tom’s side; 
he had gone off and left him in an enchanted spot and his 
wits — as the natural result — were a good deal muddled. 

At that instant they came in sight of the wagon. Tom, 
with a boyish shout, started toward it on the run, and 
Philip followed. 

But the latter had had his lesson. He put Dorothy 
that day, as far as possible, out of his thoughts. He 
threw himself into the sport with a will, and Tom had 
no farther cause for criticisms. He had never known 
Philip Fallowes, even in their old Harvard days, in a 
gayer, more rollicking mood. 

2a 


354 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XLIII 

“it had all come back to her!” 

Dorothy Draycott sat a long time — how long she 
will never know — under the apple-tree that morning. 
The first feeling she was conscious of was a profound 
gratefulness to Philip for sparing her a meeting with 
Tom at that moment. 

The shock of that transcendent surprise had been so 
overpowering that, for a while, she almost failed to real- 
ize her identity. Was she Dorothy Draycott, or some- 
body else, to whom Philip Fallowes had spoken those 
words, leaving her sitting there all alone with them in 
the stillness! 

And because the truth was too overwhelming for heart 
or brain to compass at once, she turned away, dazzled 
and confounded, to her first memories of him. The 
week at Amoury Eoost, which, as we have seen, had 
grown rather dim in the intervening years, came up now 
more distinctly, with all its varied life and incidents. 
She recalled, with some effort, their first meeting in 
the drawing-room, when Tom, who had accidentally come 
upon his old classmate somewhere on Bed Berry Boads, 
had brought him in and presented him to her. But he 
must have seen her before that time. It was in an old 
pine wood evidently, and he was asleep there when she 
rode in on her horse, — a superb creature, he had called 
him, — and the sight of her had inspired his poem, whose 
last words had said — Dorothy put them away with a 


“IT HAD ALL COME BACK TO HER! ” 355 

little, involuntary gesture as something too great and 
sacred for her to look at, to remember, now she had 
learned they had a distinct and personal relation to her- 
self — something which made her conscience feel, at that 
moment, that such words did not belong to her — that 
they were a gift of which she was not worthy. 

Again her memory went back, searching in that old 
summer. She recalled various scenes in which Philip 
Fallowes had figured, mostly in connection with Tom; 
she had always associated the two together. Then 
there had been some walks on the piazza, with talks — 
these must have been very rudimentary on her part; she 
was very young at that time ! 

But nothing gave her the clue that she wanted. 

At last she rose, left the orchard, and started for 
home. She recalled how she and young Fallowes had 
gone that same way a little while before, with jest and 
laughter; and how, under all her gayety, she never for 
a moment lost sight of her purpose — that purpose she 
had carried out — to such a consummation ! 

She stood still suddenly with a little breathless cry. 
It had all come back to her! She and Caliph were hav- 
ing that morning race over Red Berry Roads; she 
remembered just where she turned off from the hot 
highway into that dim, old pine wood; she felt the 
fresh coolness enfold her; she breathed the sweet scents; 
she gazed about the shadowy stillness again. How 
lovely it had all seemed! She even remembered how 
her hair had got loosened by that wild race, and how 
she had caught it up while she breathed Caliph, and 
then, after a little while, turned and cantered out into 
the road again. What a slight happening it was ! And 
yet lie had been there — he had seen it all, lying among 


356 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

the shadows ! And a “ wind of destiny ” had blown 
through that hour, and what events — what a long drama 
had been unfolding from it through the years — a drama 
whose climax had been reached that morning with some 
words which had left her sitting helpless, speechless, 
stunned with amazement, under that century-old apple- 
tree. 

All these thoughts swept through Dorothy’s mind 
while she stood in the old winding highway, all aglare 
now in the sunshine; she did not know when she resumed 
her walk; indeed, she did not know anything which was 
going on about her, until she found herself in her own 
room and was glad to be alone. Even Mrs. Dayles’s 
absence was a relief at that time ! 

In the silence thoughts and feelings came and went; 
some of them lingered and were full of a great amaze- 
ment, exultation, joy. To think that she — Dorothy 
Draycott — had been such an inspiring power, such 
an ennobling, uplifting influence in a human life! All 
the deeper, finer side of her nature thrilled and glowed 
with that thought. Never, in her highest, most aspir- 
ing moods, had she dyeamed that so grand a part would 
be assigned her! If she felt some of the natural pleas- 
ure and elation of youth over this consciousness, the 
tears in her eyes swelled from depths of awe and grati- 
tude. 

Dorothy’s whole being was stirred with new thoughts, 
new emotions. She and Philip Fallowes would always 
have this knowledge — it must be a sacred one — between 
them. The blood suddenly flashed scarlet in Dorothy’s 
face. She remembered now her conviction that he was 
in love with the girl of his poem — that it was only 
necessary he should meet her to become satisfied of this 


“IT HAD ALL COME BACK TO HER! ” 357 

fact himself! It had all been a mistake, of course. 
She should never have conceived such an idea — the 
beautiful head bridling — had the dimmest notion en- 
tered her mind that the girl could possibly be — her- 
self! 

But another matter soon swallowed up everything else 
in her mind. She went over rapidly, word by word, sen- 
tence by sentence, with the talk that morning. As she 
did this, her own part in it began to show in a new light. 
She saw now how she had urged Philip Fallowes — drawn 
him on — fairly forced him into the confession he had 
made with evident reluctance ; she had no right to urge 
him in that way — to persist — to leave him no choice. 

No doubt he would regret his yielding to her impor- 
tunities when he calmly went over it all. She must 
seem to him to have gone beyond the limits of womanly 
delicacy and propriety; she seemed now to have done 
this herself! It was assuming too much; it was not 
her place to interpose — to be so officious, so absolute 
— in a man’s fate! That old, beautiful ideal must be 
dimmed in his imagination forever! Then — when he 
came to think it over — how could he explain her ur- 
gency to himself? To what possible motive could he 
ascribe it! Her ignorance — now that she knew the 
truth — began to seem a little fatuous to Dorothy her- 
self. Would he not think — would he not, indeed, be 
forced to think — that she must have had some inkling 
of the facts? All Dorothy’s sensitive, girlish pride was 
in arms now; all her woman’s delicacy recoiled, morti- 
fied and stung to the core. She saw, too, in a moment, 
there was nothing to be done. All feminine tact and 
devices would be useless here. To approach the subject 
with explanations would only have the effect of confirm- 


358 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

ing Philip Fallowes’s opinion, beside being an insult to 
him and another to herself! 

The hours which followed these reflections were prob- 
ably, in some aspects, the unhappiest of Dorothy Dray- 
cott’s life. 

The young men did not return until late in the after- 
noon. Tom, in a jubilant mood over his catch, went 
straight to his sister’s room. “Dear old girl,” he ex- 
claimed, after a brotherly kiss, “I couldn’t stay to 
hunt you up this morning. I pounced on Fallowes in 
the orchard and carried him off bodily. We have had 
magnificent luck, and brook-trout will be in abundant 
evidence at supper.” He strode off to give directions 
regarding the fish. 


THE MOMENT WHICH REVEALED ALL 359 


XLIY 

THE MOMENT WHICH REVEALED ALL 

“ It was shameful ! It was cruel ! It was brutal ! ” 

These were the staccato sentences in which Philip 
Fallowes was expressing his opinion to himself as he 
paced up and down the large, old-fashioned, and delight- 
fully comfortable front chamber which had been allotted 
to him at Cherry Farms. At last he was free to give 
rein to his thoughts, which he had sternly curbed all 
day; he was going over the talk which Dorothy, in the 
room on the opposite side of the hall, had been con- 
stantly revolving during the last hours ; but his conclu- 
sions were wide apart as the poles from her own. “Of 
course,” he was saying to himself, “I should have had 
strength and manliness enough not to succumb in that 
fashion,” recalling remorsefully the look of blank amaze- 
ment, the rush of color to Dorothy’s face, and the swift 
pallor which followed, as the real import of his words 
forced themselves upon her consciousness. “It will be 
impossible for her ever to forgive me ! It would be the 
most natural thing in the world for her to suppose — 
indeed, I don’t see how she can avoid it — that all my 
talk had the deliberate purpose of leading up to this 
point, and that I was seeking to figure as a hero in her 
eyes. In that case there is nothing left for her but to 
despise me forever ! ” 

The blood flamed hot in every pulse ; he felt weak and 
shaken as a girl. How could he ever bring himself to 


360 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


look in her face again! He was conscious of a wild 
impulse to rush away from Cherry Farms without a word. 

Then he heard Tom’s voice shouting to him to come 
down-stairs, and he had no choice left but to call back 
that he would be there the next moment. 

Dorothy heard the shout, and her woman’s pride and 
sense of proprieties came to the rescue. Of course she 
must go down and meet young Fallowes as though noth- 
ing had happened. However she might have fallen from 
the old pedestal in his thoughts and imagination, he 
should see, at least, that she had some saving instinct 
for common civilities and social requirements. 

A few minutes later, Dorothy came down-stairs. Philip 
was standing on the piazza where Tom had just left him. 

“ Tom tells me you have had splendid luck to-day with 
the trout,” said the clear, unfaltering voice. “I have 
come down to congratulate you, Mr. JTallowes.” 

He turned and saw her standing there, * — the tall girl, 
— the brown eyes very bright and a deepened glow in 
her cheeks. Man as he was, with his nerves of steel, 
and his long training in all sorts of perils, he could not 
have done this thing with the light touch of tone and 
manner, the easy grace, of that young girl! 

But he managed to take her cue, as he drew a piazza 
chair toward her. “Yes, Miss Draycott, we have had 
huge good luck to-day.” 

At that moment they saw a buggy drawing up at the 
gate. Aunty Dayles had returned. 

They went down to meet her; to learn that order had 
been brought out of chaos, and that she had left behind 
her a woman, capable and efficient, at the household 
helm. 

At supper, Tom, elated over his day’s sport, talked 


THE MOMENT WHICH REVEALED ALL 361 


and jested in his most irrepressible vein, which was 
probably the best thing he could have done. 

When Dorothy and aunty Dayles were alone together 
the latter said to the girl : “ Oh, my dear, your brothers 
friend is an unusual young man ! I was amazed when 
we reached the house to see how soon he seized the situ- 
ation, and set about improving it. I could hardly be- 
lieve my eyes ; he just took off his coat — that elegant- 
mannered, young man — and made the coffee and broiled 
the steak ; and did them perfectly ; he made such fun of 
the whole thing, too! ‘What is a fellow good for/ he 
said, ‘who has lived in a log-cabin and bunked in the 
wilderness, and learned how to shift for himself, if he 
cannot do his part in an emergency of this sort? ’ Then 
that woman — gone suddenly all to pieces with house- 
hold worries and cares — he lifted her in his arms as 
tenderly as he would a baby, and laid her on the lounge 
by the window, where the wind blew sweet from the 
meadows. Those children, too! They were shy, and 
stared at him open-mouthed and open-eyed at first. But 
he soon brought them round. I heard one of them ask 
him if he wouldn’t come there to live and tell them 
such bang-up good stories every day!” 

Dorothy laughed, but a thrill of pleasure shot through 
her. With all that ideality, that imaginative side, 
which Philip Fallowes had shown to her only of all the 
world, he was no dreaming enthusiast. He did not plume 
himself on his finer tastes and his lofty superiority to 
ordinary human beings; he threw himself heartily, even 
joyously,- into the daily endeavor, the varied activities, 
if need were, the homely duties of life ! 

But Dorothy’s guarded response did not let one word 
of these reflections escape her. “ Mr. Fallowes certainly 


362 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


did himself credit, aunty Dayles. Of course lie never 
said a syllable about it, but I shall tell Tom, who will 
reply, ‘I should have expected just that thing of Fal- 
lowes ; but I challenge you to show me the second fellow 
who would have done it ! ’ ” 

When they repaired to the sitting-room, and some 
silence intervened, Tom suggested a game of whist as 
a proper sedative to bedtime, and appealed to aunty 
Dayles to take a hand. 

The game had progressed for a quarter of an hour 
when Tom laid down his cards with a grunt of dismay. 
“ What has got into you young people?” he exclaimed. 
“One who didn’t know better would suspect this was 
your first trial at whist ! ” 

Philip flushed one sort of red and Dorothy another. 
In their confusion they glanced at each other. Tom’s 
question — his entire obliviousness in certain directions 
— struck their young sense of the ludicrous. The long 
inward tension gave way. They both broke out into 
irrepressible, spontaneous laughter. It had that quality 
which is sure to communicate itself to listeners. The 
others soon found themselves laughing too. 

When the mirth had a little subsided, Tom broke out 
again: “I should like to inquire what you are laughing 
at! It is not fair you and Fallowes should have all the 
fun to yourselves ! ” 

Dorothy’s wits were not long in rallying. “Tom 
Draycott, you are getting to be as big an autocrat as 
the Czar himself! The idea that anybody may not laugh 
in your presence without being challenged in that tone, 
to give the reason why ! ” 

The laugh this time was turned on Tom, who, it must 
be admitted, seemed to enjoy it. 


THE MOMENT WHICH REVEALED ALL 363 


That night Philip said to himself, as he recalled the 
matter : “ Of course she could not help laughing. That 
clever fellow’s obfuscation was so apparent! ” 

And Dorothy, in her own room, was saying to herself : 
“Of course he must laugh — Tom’s innocence was so 
transparent; but that could not affect his conviction that 
I suspected all the time I was urging him to speak ! ” 

So both of these young people were bent upon making 
themselves miserable without the slightest reason for it. 

At breakfast the next morning, Tom Draycott brought 
down his clenched fist on the table. “Confound it!” 
he exclaimed, half to himself. “That bigger business 
entirely knocked the smaller one out of my head! I 
promised the fellow to look it up.” 

Everybody stared and awaited further developments. 
These were not long in coming. Tom had promised one 
of the clerks in the office — a young fellow whom he 
liked — to make a point of transacting some business for 
him during his trip. The matter needed some investi- 
gation and involved a visit to the adjoining town. It 
would probably consume at least three hours, and the 
young men were to leave Cherry Farms soon after din- 
ner, in order to reach Boston at midnight. 

“Of course you could ride over with me,” Tom said to 
Fallowes, when they were alone together; “but it would 
be a bore to hang around while we were investigating 
the legal aspects of the case. I shall have to leave you 
in Dorothy’s hands again.” 

His tone half implied this was a choice of evils ! 
Philip laughed and flushed. Tom did not notice the 
latter. He went on in a moment, half apologetically: 
“ If I had foreseen how things were to turn out, I should 
hardly have ventured to urge you so strongly to come 


364 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


with me. But, at all events, the fates were beneficent 
yesterday.” 

“My dear fellow,” rejoined Fallowes fervently, “I 
shall always be inexpressibly grateful to you for bring- 
ing me to Cherry Farms.” 

At that moment the horse was led up. Philip accom- 
panied Tom to the gate, wished him good luck, and 
watched him canter off at a smart pace. 

Tom little suspected what a boon his departure was 
to his friend. Philip had, at last, made up his mind 
that he owed Miss Draycott an apology for the unpar- 
donable abruptness of his disclosure of her identity with 
the girl of his poem. But all the time he was convinced 
that anything he could say would be ineffective and 
futile ; he could not approach the burning matter which 
made him writhe inwardly ; he could not tell Miss Dray- 
cott he had not the faintest idea of making himself the 
hero of his story! 

The day was not like the preceding ones. A dreamy 
southwest wind haunted the air. Silver-gray clouds, be- 
tween which shone delicious breaks and gleams of azure, 
muffled the sky. An ineffable peace brooded over the 
June landscape. It was easy to imagine in that mood 
of nature that the great, blatant world had paused for a 
moment to hear if the higher Voices spoke. 

Dorothy came out on the piazza as Philip mounted the 
steps. “Has Tom gone already?” she asked. 

Philip lifted his cap. “Yes; he was in a hurry to be 
off.” 

Dorothy Draycott stood still. She wore this morning 
a gown of cream-colored wool, whose light, soft folds 
clung close to her figure. She, too, had something to 
say; she had had a dozen minds about it since she went 


THE MOMENT WHICH REVEALED ALL 365 


upstairs from breakfast. It would be a comparatively 
easy matter, if that were all, to make a formal apology 
for her unwarrantable interference yesterday. But that 
would not help matters; that would not touch the thing 
which galled and stung her maiden pride and delicacy, 
— the thought that Philip would always feel she must 
have suspected beforehand what she had at last forced 
him to reveal. 

The hour had struck! The great life-moment had 
come for both. The wonder was, whether either would 
have the wisdom or insight to know it. 

Suddenly, with a kind of blind, desperate impulse 
that he must not let the chance slip, Philip spoke. 
" Miss Draycott, I can never forgive myself for what I 
said yesterday. It was unpardonable — it was shame- 
ful ! I did not — ” 

The words failed him. He grew white as he gazed at 
her. In an instant one of those flashes of conviction, 
which nothing can make more absolute, passed through 
him. Many things — especially those talks in the or- 
chard — had been leading up to this knowledge. Indeed, 
it is a question whether it had not for years lain in his 
subconsciousness. But, at all events, Philip Fallowes 
knew now that he loved the girl standing before him — 
not as some ideal being, set apart and sacred in a shrine, 
but with a man’s human love for the one woman he 
would take into his heart and life, for his most intimate 
companionship, his deepest joy, his crowning blessed- 
ness. In that illuminating moment he saw, too, that 
it was better to have the ideal of his imagination trans- 
formed into the joyous, blooming girl before him, full 
of youth and life and human instincts and impulses, and 
the human limitations that come with them. 


366 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

In that great, critical moment of his life, the calm 
followed swiftly for Philip Fallowes on the shock and 
tumult of his surprise. He did not suspect that his 
eyes had spoken for him, as Dorothy took their full 
radiance in her own. As for speech, there was no need 
of it — whether it tried and faltered, or grew eloquent 
with all the power and beauty of words. 

Dorothy did not grow pale, as she had done the day 
before, under that overpowering surprise. A hitherto 
unsuspected, unimagined happiness stole over her; but 
there was a great calm at its heart. In a moment they 
both knew! 

All the pain and doubt and misinterpretation of a 
minute before disappeared in this that had come to 
them ; and that seemed now as beautiful, as right, and 
natural as that morning sun shining in the heavens. 

With a nature like Dorothy’s, all disguises would be 
sure to vanish at such a moment, and her true self come 
to the surface. She answered the question in Philip’s 
eyes with a look which no other had ever surprised in 
the depths of her own; she laid her hand on his coat- 
sleeve, and her low, tremulous words were character- 
istic. “0 Philip, I am glad — I thank God it was I 
and not — not that other girl ! ” 

In a corner of the piazza a great honeysuckle vine 
formed, with twisting branches and latticework, a kind 
of rude bower. Philip brought chairs and they sat to- 
gether under the leafy roof which, a little later, would 
seem all a-flutter with red-winged birds, when the vine 
broke into gay flowering. Nobody came or went. For 
the next three hours they were as much alone together 
as though they were the only people in the world. 

As for what they said to each other — oh, my reader, 


THE MOMENT WHICH REVEALED ALL 367 


if you have come to know them in these pages, there is 
no need I should tell you! 

At the end of those three hours Tom came up on full 
gallop to the gate. The time seemed as long as eter- 
nity, and yet brief as passing moments to the young 
lovers. They went down to meet him. 

“ Business all fixed up ! ” he exclaimed triumphantly. 
“ It is to be pleasure for the next few hours before we 
start. Have you been good to him, Dollikins?” 

Philip answered for her. “She has been supremely 
good to me, Tom ! ” 

There was some unusual depth and significance in his 
tones. Tom glanced from one to the other A new 
light and joy were in their eyes as they stood there, side 
by side, — he in his young manhood’s strength and power, 
and she. in her maiden’s grace and beauty. Even Tom 
was impressed by the sight as he smiled and lifted his 
hat. But he was no wiser, as appeared from his reflec- 
tions as he rode off to the stable. 

“ Dorothy has kept her word, I see. Now she has got 
to know Eallowes better, she will find he is worth a 
whole crowd of those fellows, with their nonsense and 
moonshine, who are always hanging about her.” 


368 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XLV 

AS DONALD DRAYCOTT RELATED IT 

More than a week after the young men’s visit to 
Cherry Farms, Mr. and Mrs. Draycott came into the 
library after dinner. Dorothy was expected home the 
next day. 

Mr. Draycott sat absorbed by the table, apparently 
contemplating the figures on the rug; his wife glanced 
up at him two or three times. The lights were turned 
low; but a delicious breeze from the east had cooled the 
dusk, and played among the window draperies and 
brought occasionally a whiff from the sea. 

At last Donald Draycott looked up and said to his 
wife, “ Grace, something has happened to-day.” 

“I was sure of that,” she replied, and she folded her 
hands on her lap, perhaps to quiet the premonitory 
throb at her heart. 

“ Young Fallowes appeared at the office this morning; 
he wanted some private talk and we went into the inner 
sanctum; he came from New York solely for this inter- 
view; he stayed four hours, and was obliged to be back 
to-night. The Western business is engrossing just now. 
There was no time even for a call on Tom.” 

There was a slight pause here. Mrs. Draycott did not 
avail herself of it. 

“ Grace, that young man came to tell me that he loved 
Dorothy ! ” 


AS DONALD DRAYCOTT RELATED IT 369 


“And she — does the child know?” asked Mrs. Dray- 
cott in a low, breathless tone. 

“Yes; it was with her consent, with her entire wish, 
that he made this visit. The thing has all come about, 
it appears, at Cherry Farms. Dorothy had no more 
idea of his feeling than — than I had when I went to 
town this morning.” 

“ I have been expecting this must come ! ” remarked 
Mrs. Draycott quietly. 

Her husband turned quickly on her now with an 
amazed look. “And you never told me this, Grace!” 

“Ho, Donald.” The admission was half apologetic, 
half pleading. “I tried to, several times, but some- 
thing held me back. Will you go on now?” 

“I cannot believe any father ever listened to quite 
such a story from the man who was seeking his daugh- 
ter’s hand. I can hardly conceive how such a story was 
lived.” 

“Tell me, Donald,” rejoined Mrs. Draycott. 

He answered by talking far into the summer midnight, 
relating what young Fallowes had said to him that day. 

Mrs. Draycott, leaning forward a little, listened with 
that intent, breathless interest which lets no word escape. 
Occasionally she broke in with some swift interroga- 
tion or low exclamation. Once in a while her husband 
knew, by her hurried breathing, that there was a sob in 
her throat. There were passages in the story when his 
own voice grew husky, and the tears smarted in his 
eyes. 

When at last he ceased talking, his wife said, “I 
think you are right, Donald; I cannot believe any other 
lover ever brought to his suit quite such a story as 
this!” 


370 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

“ When one thinks of what a mere slip of a girl she 
was — just going off to school, you remember; how 
little he saw of her; how young he was himself, too, 
and what he had to go through afterward, the harsh 
conditions, the long absence, the hard pull of daily life 
which try a man soul and body, and with only that 
slight memory to cling to; and how she — -our little 
girl — became such an exalting influence, such an in- 
spiring motive in his life, — surpasses, in some of its 
aspects, all I have ever read or dreamed of young love. 
It was hard on the fellow at times to speak of it, — I could 
see that. He would stammer and blush like a school- 
boy! Then he would forget everything in the depth 
and strength of his feeling. The curious thing about it 
all is, that he did not regard himself in the light of a 
lover. It struck me, as he talked, that he had held her 
apart from him that he might in essential things draw 
her closer.” 

“And Dorothy? ” asked the mother. 

“ I suspect it all came to her in just as overwhelming 
a surprise. But he did not say that; he left her to tell 
her own part.” 

“Donald, did you promise him Dorothy?” 

“Ho, Grace. I would not do that without first seeing 
you — without first seeing them both at Red Knolls. 
But I think he did not, at the last, go away disconso- 
late.” 

After this, Mrs. Draycott related to her husband some 
things which Philip Fallowes himself did not know — it 
was the look which she had seen in his eyes that day 
when he stood by the window awaiting Tom’s return, 
and Dorothy came suddenly into the room. 

“It seemed to me whenever I attempted to speak. 


AS DONALD DRAYCOTT RELATED IT 371 


that the right words — the words which fitly interpreted 
that look — would not come. There was something in 
it of all he told you to-day. You understand now, 
Donald?” 

“As I could not before he had spoken. You were 
wise to wait, Grace.” 


372 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


XL YI 

HOW EVENTS CULMINATED AT RED KNOLLS 

The next day Dorothy returned home. During the 
last week Philip had written with a lover’s promptness. 
She fancied their mutual secret had been kept inviolate, 
even from Mrs. Dayles; but there was something in her 
last look, in the lingering tenderness of her parting 
words, which awoke a first doubt in her mind. Mrs. 
Dayles had keen insight, but she had never opened the 
way to any confidences. She must have known she 
would have these in time, and felt they belonged first to 
Dorothy’s father and mother. 

Philip hurried to Red Knolls in two or three days 
after Dorothy’s return. The day following his appear- 
ance, it was all settled in the simplest fashion. When 
the four were alone together, Donald Draycott placed 
his daughter’s hand in that of young Fallowes and said 
to him : “ No other man could have so deserved — so won 
her. I give her to you, Philip, my one ‘little hearth 
flower, ’ my Dorothy ! ” 

Then Mrs. Draycott put her arms about his neck and 
called him “her own boy,” and when he looked in those 
tender eyes he knew she had brought him something 
which his boyhood and youth had always, half con- 
sciously, missed and longed for. 

On this occasion one topic was discussed with some 
seriousness, under all the surface jest and mirth. An 
affair of this sort could no longer be kept secret from 


HOW EVENTS CULMINATED AT RED KNOLLS 373 


Tom Draycott. It would be a stupendous surprise to 
him; it was uncertain how he would take it. 

Even Philip — when it came to the pinch — shrank 
from making the disclosure which involved laying bare 
the most intimate and sacred feelings of his life to one 
who had no experience in these matters, and who had a 
kind of superior, amused tolerance for romance and sen- 
timent. When the matter came up, Eallowes actually 
turned red and, with a little embarrassed laugh, said, 
“ I see it will not be an easy matter to make Draycott 
understand ! ” 

Dorothy’s cheeks were scarlet. “ You know what Tom 
is ! I never could tell him — never! ” 

“But we cannot all shirk this thing and leave Tom to 
find out for himself,” interposed Mr. Draycott, after a 
hearty laugh. “ I confess to a doubt of my capacity to 
deal with the fellow on such a delicate occasion ! ” 

“I think I can make Tom understand!” interposed 
Mrs. Draycott, with an amused smile at the corners of 
her mouth, as she looked from one to the other of the 
big, helpless men. 

“We will leave it all in your hands with thanks, 
Grace,” rejoined her husband. “Yes, I see! ” he added, 
half to himself; “Tom’s mother will make him under- 
stand.” 

Young Draycott returned the next day; he had been 
away on some professional business. He was amazed 
to learn that Eallowes had been staying at Red Knolls 
for a couple of days, and though he had left for Spring- 
field that morning, was expected to return at night. 
Tom found some consolation in the prospect this af- 
forded him. 

After dinner his mother claimed him for a while. The 


374 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


talk took place in her own room. It was uninterrupted 
and prolonged. 

The result can best be told in Tom’s own words. He 
and his mother repaired at last to the library. Eallowes 
meanwhile had returned, and was sitting in the library 
with Dorothy and her father. 

There was a little silence as the two entered. Tom 
turned to the young people. “Well, if you haven’t 
stolen a tremendous march on me ! I throw up my cap ! 
You must be a clever brace, for you have proved conclu- 
sively, indubitably, my incapacity to see what is going 
on before my eyes ! ” 

Everybody laughed and Tom, as soon as he could be 
heard, went on in a tone half aggrieved, half resentful : 
“So I was prejudged too material and unromantic and 
altogether too prosaic a being to comprehend the finer 
and more poetic aspects of this affair ! ” 

Everybody laughed again ; but nobody seemed to have 
anything to say. Then Tom strode over to Philip, 'who 
was sitting near Dorothy. “You and I are to be broth- 
ers-in-law it seems!” addressing Eallowes. “Heaven 
be praised it is you! If it were any other fellow who 
had stolen my Dollikins away from me — why, I would 
just shoot him ! ” 

“ Tom — dear old boy ! — I owe all this happiness to 
you ! ” 

Then those two big fellows, for the first time in their 
lives, kissed each other! 

Philip, bringing all modern auxiliaries of telephone 
and telegraph to his aid, managed, with brief absences, 
to extend his visit for more than a week. In an incred- 
ibly short time it seemed natural and right — in accord- 
ance with the eternal fitness of things — that he should 


HOW EVENTS CULMINATED AT RED KNOLLS 875 


be at Red Knolls, son and brother and lover in the 
household. 

As for Tom, he had a subject for infinite jests now. 
But he had too strong a conviction of the quality of 
Philip Fallowes’s character to associate any weak sen- 
timentality with what he had said or lived. He con- 
stantly felicitated himself on the fact that he was to 
have the one brother-in-law whom he would have chosen 
out of all the world ! 

Dorothy never tired of hearing stories of his Western 
life. Her questions often made him laugh. They were 
so wide of the mark ! “ Some time we will go and see it 

all together? ” he said. 

But at this time they made few plans for their future. 
The present was bliss enough. 

Philip, however, never doubted that at times the old 
craving for the mountain heights and strengths would 
come back; but he was learning during these days that 
the home of his heart, his supreme rest and joy, would 
be at Red Knolls. Circumstances, too, all pointed one 
way. Mining interests would be likely to require his 
presence and direction largely at the East. 

One day the two were walking in the grounds, and 
Dorothy said to Philip : “ I heard papa telling Tom at 
dinner last night that though mines were always a very 
uncertain quantity, there seemed excellent reasons for 
believing you would, one of these days, be a rich man. 
Are you glad, Philip?” 

He laughed at something in her tone. “ I suppose a 
man who did not care would be something more or less 
than human; but the man who has had money and who 
has had to live without it knows best what it can do, 
and what it cannot.” 


376 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 


“Now the greatest thing has come to us, Philip, the 
grand fortune, if that came too, would not seem so 
much. We should feel it belonged largely to others 
who had missed our happiness.” 

Philip answered this remark in a fashion which had 
become very much of a habit of his, when they were 
alone together and Dorothy said — things. 

But much of the time they were gay — these young 
people — as youth and happiness could make them. 
Philip fell into a habit of jesting and rallying Dorothy, 
which made her tell him he would soon be as bad as 
Tom! 


THE TALK ON THE LOWER PIAZZA 377 


XL VII 

THE TALK ON THE LOWER PIAZZA 

“ I shall be a little sorry for both when the parting 
conies to-morrow. They have been in a very heaven of 
happiness during the last week.” 

Mrs. Draycott said this to her husband soon after they 
came out to walk on the piazza. It was a night in the 
last of June. The winds seemed to have gone to sleep 
forever, and the moon was at the full. 

“Yes; I have observed the happiness of those young 
people has seemed to pervade the air of Red Knolls. 
Of course that is quite as it should be. Nobody has a 
right not to share his own good, whatever that may be, 
with others. In this case, the servants have looked 
gayer and happier, as though they had their crumbs 
from the heaped table. Grace,” bending down on her 
from his tall height, with a laugh in his eyes, “you can- 
not escape your fate — the world is going to call us father 
and mother in law .” 

Her laugh was like a girl’s. “Who cares what the 
world calls us when we have a son who more than real- 
izes — in certain ways — all that we could have hoped 
for our child ! ” 

“Yes; the more I see them together, the more I am 
satisfied that, under certain surface and temperamental 
differences, — which are to be desired in the closest rela- 
tions, — there is a very wide range of vital sympathies, 
tastes, and aspirations in common.” 


378 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT'S TO-MORROWS 


“ Then it all has come about so naturally ! It has been 
a taking of Philip right into our hearts — into our home. 
I have only one dread, Donald,” her voice lowering a 
little. 

“ What is that?” 

“ It may be a weakness, a superstition, but, in a world 
like this — where the air is full of chance and change, 
where there are such possibilities of sorrow and tragedy, 
— I almost tremble in the presence of such happiness. 
I ask myself whether mortals have a right to it.” 

“I understand all that, Grace; I had something of 
that feeling in our early married life ; but now I have 
had you by me twenty-seven years I have begun to feel 
that happiness is the right and natural thing, and that 
no parting — even the last one — can separate us.” 

Her beautiful eyes smiled up at him, but she did not 
speak. 

In a moment he went on: “And though youth and 
love and joy are having their time now, we know that 
the inevitable experiences are waiting. Philip has had 
his lesson — in the sternest of practical schools. As for 
Dorothy, I do not believe she will be less brave to meet 
her fate because of the pleasant ways of her youth. 
Then,” he continued in a moment, “those two young 
people are going to help and sustain and inspire each 
other. I think you and I have proved that is a part, at 
least, of what married life should do.” 

And the woman’s low response seemed to breathe 
rather from her heart than her lips: “Yes; we have 
proved it, Donald.” 


THE TALK ON THE UPPER PIAZZA 


379 


XLVIII 

THE TALK ON THE UPPER PIAZZA 

While this talk had been going on, another had been 
taking place on the upper piazza at Red Knolls. Some 
of the talk was light and gay as the youth and joy in 
which it had its source, and some of it was earnest and 
grave as life sometimes looks, even at its springtide. 

For a while the talk concerned itself much with the 
days at Cherry Farms — days which the two would 
always look back upon as the most important epoch 
in their lives. 

“ If Tom had not carried you off almost by main force, 
we might never have known, Philip! ” said Dorothy. 

“Of course I understand the immense debt I must 
always owe him.” 

“He is behaving beautifully, too. I am perfectly 
sure he trumped up that excuse to go off to-night and 
leave us together ! ” In a few moments Dorothy stopped 
short and said to him, “ Philip, did I ever, in any form, 
shape, or fashion, propose to you? ” 

He stared, and then burst into a roar of laughter. 
“What put that absurdest of ideas into your head?” 

“It just struck me that I could not remember your 
doing that — in quite the approved form. It is a sensi- 
tive point with me, too, because, for the last year, Tom 
and I have had one favorite subject of discussion. When 
all others failed, we fell back on that.” 

“What could it possibly have been?” 


380 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

Simply whether a woman has as good a right — in 
the nature of things — to propose as a man. Of course 
I took the negative side with emphasis. Tom stood as 
stoutly on the affirmative. ” 

“ How delightful ! I wish I could have been present 
at some of those discussions. ” 

“ Oh, you will have plenty of chances ! I only wanted 
to be sure I had not, in practice, disavowed all my prin- 
ciples. 57 

Hot long after this little side issue of fun, the two 
were gazing over the parapet on the terraces below in 
that white moonlight which threw all the shrubbery into 
strong relief and touched all common things with a mys- 
tic, ethereal loveliness. The two figures — the young 
man and the girl by his side — gave the scene just the 
human element — the touch of romance and drama — 
which it needed. 

“ This night reminds me of that one at Amoury Boost, 
when we had our first walk together,” said Philip, break- 
ing a pause. “ You wore a white gown, too. It seems 
to me it must have been this very one! How it all 
comes up now! I was a callow youth then, and you 
were the only girl in the world as you walked by my 
side. In that respect, at least, my opinion is not 
changed to-night ! ” 

Dorothy laughed, a little, touched kind of laugh, but 
she did not reply, and in a few moments they resumed 
their walk. 

When she did speak, a little later, her voice had a 
serious, half-appealing note. “ Philip, I cannot let you 
go away to-morrow without saying something which I 
should have done before.” She felt she had made an 
ineffective conclusion. 


THE TALK ON THE UPPER PIAZZA 


381 


He took her up lightly. “ Don’t — please — keep me 
waiting an instant longer ! ” 

“Oh, but this is no light matter! It is my duty to 
tell you. I have been feeling that all day. The diffi- 
culty will be in making you believe what I say.” 

“ Then it will be the first time. But go on, Dorothy ! ” 
“ There was no such girl as you imagined that night 
at Amoury Roost; there is no such young woman as you 
think, existing now! ” 

His one whistled note was a very accented protest. 

“ I knew you would treat it in that way. But it is the 
truth. That kind of Dorothy was a beautiful, impos- 
sible creature of your imagination. All these happy 
days my soul has been saying to me, ‘You are not worthy, 
Dorothy Draycott, of this great love which has come to 
you ! 9 It must say that to yours now. For I am dis- 
mayed when I think of the contrast between your ideal 
and the real woman you will have to know. How great, 
how cruel, must be your surprise and disappointment! 
No — you must hear me now! ” as he crushed the hand 
on his arm in a passion of tenderness and protest. “ I 
am full of faults, vanities, tempers — but there is no use 
going over with the list! I sometimes actually get dis- 
gusted trying to be good in bits and places, and feel like 
giving full rein to all the badness which is in me ! 99 

“Dorothy,” said Philip, gravely this time, “if I were 
to make a clean breast of it at this moment, I should 
not have courage to look you in the face ! ” 

“ Oh, you have proved what you are, Philip ! ” she 
answered, with passionate conviction. “In such ways, 
too, as I think no man ever did before — ever could 
again! What had you ever seen — what had I ever said 
or done — that you should have found in me such memo- 


382 DOROTHY DRAYCOTT’S TO-MORROWS 

ries, such help and inspiration ! It is now — it always 
must be — the supreme wonder of my life that such a 
thing, such a love, should come to me, — just Dorothy 
Draycott! I used to think that papa’s and mamma’s 
marriage was the most beautiful in the world; but he 
had mamma ! I have often heard him say that he owed 
everything that was best in him to her presence and in- 
fluence; but you, Philip — you had nobody, and how 
bravely you lived through all those hard, lonely years 

— how grandly you bore all their tests ! Why should I 
have so rich a gift, and others go so scanted! ” 

“ My dear Dorothy, the girl who can talk and feel as 
you are doing to-night proves that my instinct was true 

— alike at Amoury Boost and at Miner’s Best ! ” 

This was a part of their talk as they walked back and 
forth “on the upper piazza” in the June night. 

But once, at something which Dorothy said, Philip 
burst into a half-touched, half-embarrassed laugh. “ Talk 
of me ! ” he said. “ What an inveterate idealist you 
are, Dorothy! I am covered with confusion — I want 
to hide my head, when I hear you going on with 
your glowing, unmerited adjectives, and remember the 
very imperfect, ordinary sort of fellow I am. How 
* will you bear it when some day you learn the truth and 
are disillusioned ! ” 

“ But, as I said, you have proved what you are — 
proved it before heaven and earth ! ” There was an 
exultant ring in Dorothy’s voice. 

“ I proved that I knew the best when I saw it ! Oh, 
yes — there was one thing more ! ” 

“What was that?” 

“ I proved what a woman — what a young girl — may 
be to a man.” 


THE TALK ON THE UPPER PIAZZA 383 

Was it because Dorothy was a woman that she had 
the last word? At all events, it was one of those words 
which leave no sting behind them. 

“Ah, but that depends so much, Philip, upon the 
man ! ” 


THE END 















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A Boston Girl’s Ambition. By Virginia F. Townsend. 

Price $1.50. 

“ This is a grand story, grandly told. The little mists which went to make up 
the shadows of the years in the lives of two young people, the sufferings and 
privations of Dorrice and Carryl, their struggle upward, and the happiness 
which smiled upon them at the end of the struggle, will cause the story to 
linger long in the minds and hearts of its readers.” — Washington Chronicle. 

That Queer Girl. By Virginia F. Townsend. Price $1.50. 

The “ Queer Girl ” is a charming character, and so is Rowan, the real hero. 
She is “queer” only in being unconventional, brave, and frank, — “an old- 
fashioned girl.” The girls who follow her history, and that of her pleasant 
companions, are sure of being delightfully entertained; and they may, if they 
will, take a lesson from brave, unselfish Madeline. 

Daryll Gap. By Virginia F. Townsend. Price $1.50. 

The celebrity of Virginia F. Townsend as an authoress, her brilliant 
descriptive powers, and pure, vigorous imagination, will insure a hearty wel- 
come for the above-entitled volume, written in the writer’s happiest vein. 

“ A story of the petroleum days, and of a family who struck oil. Her plots 
are well arranged, and her characters are clearly and strongly drawn.” — 
Pittsburg Recorder. 

Lenox Dare. By Virginia F. Townsend. Price $1.50. 

A story of New England people, and of life associated with Hampton 
Beach and its vicinity. The plot is natural and well treated, and the senti- 
ments pure. The story is very entertaining, and, to the thoughtful reader, 
instructive and stimulating. 

A Woman’s Word, and how she kept it. By Virginia F. 

Townsend. Price $1.50. 

“This is a thoroughly charming story, natural, wholesome, and extremely 
interesting. The heroine is a delightful creation, and all the dramatis persona 
are remarkably well drawn. It is pleasant to come across a novel so entirely 
worthy of praise, and we commend it without reserve to all our readers.” — 
Charleston News. 

Mostly Marjorie Day. By Virginia F. Townsend. Price, 
. cloth, $1.50; paper, 50 cents. 

In this book, there is the endeavor of a noble and lovable girl to escape from 
the conventionalities which fettered her life, and engage in some serious duty. 
She became a nurse, and, in the end, had her exceeding great reward. It is a 
bright, spirited, and sometimes delicately humorous story, with a well managed 
plot, and life-like characters. 

But a Philistine. By Virginia F. Townsend. Price $1.50. 

One of the most pleasing works of this author. It is a story of natural 
thoughts rather than events; and it is the author’s unique coupling of passive 
subject and vigorous style that gives the work its attractive quality. The 
characters are strong, and several of the scenic descriptions have the true ring 
of poetic appreciation, while in conversational passages the diction is bright, 
pleasing, and varied. 

LEE AND SHEPARD. BCSTON. SEND THEIR COMPLETE CATALOGUE FREE. 


LEE AND SHEPARD’S POPULAR FICTION 


The Deerings of Medbury. By Virginia F. Townsend. 
Price $1.00. 

As a writer of sweet, refined fiction, instinct with noble ideals, and pervaded 
by a spirit of aspiration toward all that is pure and lovely and of good report, 
Virginia F. Townsend is unsurpassed. She is a poet of nature, and she 
weaves her beautiful thoughts and dreams into story after story, all character- 
ized by an artistic touch, and by uplifting, spiritual ideals of life. 

Only Girls. By Virginia F. Townsend. Price $1.50. 

In this charming story, uncle Richard says, “ There never was a true or 
noble deed in the world, without some woman or girl was at the bottom of it; ” 
and upon this idea the author has shown how great is the influence which a 
cousin or sister can have over her companions who are just starting to seek 
their fortunes in the world. Temptations may lead them astray, but repentance 
will follow, as the remembrance of a gentle, loving friend comes like a ray of 
light to dispel the clouds of darkness. 

The Hollands. By Virginia F. Townsend. Price $1.00. 

A new issue of a novel of long ago, and will be gladly hailed by the man 
readers of this interesting writer. 

This is one of Miss Townsend’s best efforts. Her appreciation of the best 
side of human nature, her pure, moral tone, and her unquestioned literary skill, 
— upon these qualities her popularity rests secure. There are some stirring 
scenes in this book. 

Six in All. By Virginia F. Townsend. Price $1.00. 

Most readers who take up this book will be very reluctant to lay it down 
again before the last page is read. Of the “ Six in All,” three are men; one of 
them rich in worldly possessions, but poor at the outset in some other and more 
desirable things. The other two are every-day, commonplace sort of people, 
in whose affairs the reader is much interested at the very start. Miss Town- 
send gives an entertaining story, and teaches a wholesome lesson. She puts 
into the mouths of her characters some utterances calculated to deepen and 
strengthen one’s faith in the better principles. 

The Mills of Tuxbury. By Virginia F. Townsend. Price 
$1.00. 

A story which long since received its seal of public approval by great popu- 
larity, but which for some time has been out of print. It is now republished in 
a neat and attractive form to meet a constant inquiry for the author’s produc- 
tions. The story is pure and elevating, written in a natural, flowing *tyle, and 
has situations of thrilling interest. 


LEE AND SHEPARD, BOSTON, SEND THEIR COMPLETE CATALOGUE FREE. 





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